Chapter Text
The world of jujutsu sorcery is not a temple of salvation;
It is a place where every ounce of power you possess is weighed against your name, your history, and most crucially, the configuration of your chromosomes. The Kamo, the Zenin, the Gojo-—these clans are less a foundation and more a cage, their power secured by centuries of breeding for specific causes, all while relegating the non-clan sorcerers to the role of glorified, disposable muscle.
For women, the hierarchy twists into a Gordian knot, a silent agreement amongst the elders: power must be neutralized, contained, or, ideally, leveraged for a more valuable son. If you are not a mother or a wife, you are a political object, a walking, talking resource to be managed by a higher-ranking man.
Iori Utahime understood this truth long before the blood was spilled. She was nine years old, when she first heard her grandfather, the retired patriarch, deliver the crushing judgment. He hadn’t looked at her father, the Clan Head, with anger—only with the withering, absolute disdain of disappointment.
"You couldn’t even give this clan a future," the old man had rasped, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, as if the shame were visible up there. "You failed the bloodline. A daughter."
Utahime, hiding behind a screen, wished, with the desperation of a child, that she could simply be a boy. A son.
Anything that would alleviate the crushing weight of her father’s invisibility and stop the stinging, misplaced cruelty her mother then delivered to her, absorbing her husband’s failure and redirecting it onto the easy target.
The disappointment lingered for years.
Then one day, it ended in fire.
The maid’s voice pierced the smoke.
“Utahime-sama… it is almost time for the ceremony.”
Utahime rose from the bath with a suddenness that sent water cascading over the marble edge. The scent of jasmine clung to her skin as she pushed her hair back, her fingers steady despite the storm gathering behind her ribs. The heat of the water softened her muscles but did nothing to loosen the grip of old memories.
She stepped out, droplets sliding down her legs, forming small shimmering pools around her feet. The maid kept her head bowed—not out of modesty, but fear.
Utahime relished that fear the way others savored perfume. She had climbed out of the ashes of a nameless, powerless house to stand here, in a mansion carved from centuries of prestige. She had drowned in expectations, survived humiliation, learned how cruelty tasted when it came from your own blood.
Now they were the ones who couldn’t meet her eyes.
She moved to the vanity, silk clinging to damp skin, and caught her reflection in the gilded mirror. It always startled her—how far she had come, how sharp she had grown, how easily she could kill a man with a thought and smile politely afterward.
She wanted rebirth.
Not as a daughter.
Not as a wife.
Not as a political pawn.
But as the highest authority in a system built to crush women like her.
Tonight had nothing to do with tradition. Nor with loyalty. Nor with honoring the Gojo clan.
Tonight was about taking the throne they swore she’d never touch.
Utahime studied her reflection, one fingertip tracing the faint silvered scar that curved along her cheek. It had never been disfiguring; if anything, it illuminated the distance she had traveled to stand here.
“What is that?” she asked without lifting her gaze from the mirror.
The maid stuttered, knuckles whitening against the lacquered tray she held. “Your attire for the ceremony, Utahime-sama.”
On the neatly folded silk lay the unmistakable crest of the Gojo clan.
Utahime’s expression didn’t waver, though a quiet spark of derision flickered in her eyes. She rested her hand atop the emblem, feeling the threads beneath her palm.
“How thoughtful,” she murmured.
Centuries of arrogance stitched into a single piece of silk, an entire dynasty believing she would step into their ceremony draped in their demands.
Utahime slid the garment aside.
“This won’t do.”
Her gaze drifted across the room to the other garment waiting on a lacquer stand.
Crimson. Velvet-slick. Hand-stitched in a way that accentuated the curve of a waist, the line of a throat, the surety of a woman who had learned exactly how to make power bow.
The maid swallowed. “Utahime-sama… this is the order from Mrs. Gojo. You are to wear the clan’s—”
“I heard you.” Utahime rose from her seat, silk clinging to damp skin, her hair tumbling over one shoulder in a slow, luxurious spill. She smiled, but it never reached her eyes. “I will be wearing this one.”
The tray slipped in the maid’s grip. “But the elders—”
Utahime crossed the space between them in three unhurried steps. She tilted the maid’s chin upward with two fingers, her touch gentle only in appearance.
“Which part of what I said was unclear?”
The maid’s breath hitched.
Utahime leaned in, her voice dropping into a quiet intimacy that felt more dangerous than shouting. “And why,” she asked softly, “are you addressing me by my first name? It is not the old days”
The air tightened.
The maid bowed deeply. “Forgive me… my lady.”
“Better.” Utahime let her go, turning back to the crimson gown. “Leave now. I need to dress.”
Her smile, soft, razor-edged—sent a shiver down the maid’s spine.
---
When she stepped into the hall.
The maids gasped first. The red dress hugged her figure with unapologetic precision; her lipstick mirrored its shade, a match sharpened into weaponry. The hem skimmed just above her knees—scandalous by the clan’s brittle standards.
“My lady, the elders—” the elder maid stammered.
“—can avert their eyes if they’re offended,” Utahime replied.
She brushed past them and opened the door to the corridor.
Conversations halted. The old women of the Gojo clan whispered behind painted silk, scandal slicing through their hushed voices. The men stared—some with disapproval, others with something far less righteous.
And at the far end of the hall, waiting beneath the light, stood Gojo Satoru—the clan head, the strongest man alive, her powerful tool, and the only fool in the room who would love her no matter how deeply she cut.
He saw her first.
His breath caught.
The Six Eyes, usually so distant, so bored, were focused, locked onto her with a raw, undeniable intensity that cut through the infinity barrier and the crowd.
She saw it. She savored it. It was the purest form of currency in this hall: power over the most powerful.
He stepped towards her, ignoring the gasps around him, and offered his hand.
“You look… gorgeous,” he said, voice low, teasing, a spark of something darker flickering in his eyes.
Utahime smiled and placed her hand in his.
Behind them, a severe-looking Elder from the peripheral Gojo houses hissed, "She should be executed for her acts!”
Gojo turned his head, smile pleasant, tone venom-sweet. “Mind your tongue, old hag. She is my wife. And your Clan Head.”
The entire hall stiffened.
Utahime ignored the chaos she had created. She slid a finger under Gojo’s jaw, her red nail a stark contrast against his pale skin, and gently turned his face back to her. “Well,” she murmured slyly, her smile perfectly composed, “you’re getting really good at this.”
“Learned it from you, hime” he said under his breath, the smile reaching only his eyes. “Are you satisfied now?”
Utahime cupped his cheek lightly, nails grazing his skin.
“Aww,” she said, tone dripping sweetness that wasn’t sweet at all, “are you mad? You didn’t like this?”
His throat worked. The sound he made was barely audible—something between a swallow and surrender.
The high-ranking Gojo official, scrambling to restore formality and bury the shock, rushed to the dais and raised his voice.
"We now commence the traditional ceremony of recognition! Please rise for Mrs. Utahime Gojo—"
Utahime's grip tightened on Satoru’s shoulder, a silent signal of command. She tilted her head, her smile unwavering, and interrupted the official mid-pronouncement.
"Stop," she commanded, her voice soft but carrying the undeniable authority of the strongest man's will.
The official froze, his face pallid. The hall held its breath.
Utahime stepped fully out from under Gojo's arm. She faced the terrified official, the room, and the hostile Elders.
"Please," she articulated clearly, her scar catching the light, "I appreciate the sentiment. But you will address me as Utahime Iori."
The collective gasp that followed was not merely shock; it was the chilling sound of a forgotten corpse rattling its chains. Iori. The dead clan, the house annihilated by the Big Three, now resurrected by the woman who stood as the new head of the Gojo house.
The hostility peaked when two figures in the front row reacted violently: Gojo's Father glared with raw, dangerous fury, while Gojo's Mother gasped, her eyes wide with panic.
Gojo’s Mother, abandoning all decorum, rushed forward, her own silk robe rustling frantically. She cornered Utahime, her voice a desperate, low hiss meant only for her.
"What are you up to now?" she demanded, grabbing Utahime's elbow. She hissed, “Are you insane? We got you married into this family so you wouldn’t face execution. The least you can do is keep your mouth shut about your clan.”
“Okāsama,” she said softly, “you’re ruining the ceremony.”
Gojo was at Utahime’s side before his mother could breathe again. A flicker of something ancient moved through the Six Eyes—territorial, cold, and unmistakably final.
“Okaasan,” he said, stepping between them with a smile that did not reach his eyes, “don’t touch her.”
She inhaled sharply. “Satoru, she is provok—”
“Don’t,” he repeated, voice silken and lethal, “touch my wife.”
A ripple of horror spread through the front row. Gojo’s father stiffened like a man watching his dynasty slip between his fingers. The Elders looked ready to faint.
Gojo’s father rose from his seat with the slow, deliberate fury of a man who had spent his entire life believing his authority was absolute. The veins in his temple pulsed. His gaze cut through the hall and landed on Utahime with the full weight of the clan’s centuries-old arrogance.
“This farce ends now,” he announced, each word staggered with indignation. “You—girl—have forgotten your place.”
Utahime did not bother turning. She was still facing Satoru’s mother, her expression beautiful, and remote, as if this were a minor inconvenience interrupting her evening.
“My place?” she repeated softly, tracing the back of Satoru’s hand with a single crimson-painted nail. “I don’t recall asking for one.”
Her tone carried through the hall, weaving itself into every ear, chilling even the bravest elders to their marrow.
Gojo’s father’s composure cracked.
“You were granted life only because my son pitied you!” he roared. “The Iori line is dead. Erased. You have no history, no future, no—”
Utahime lifted her eyes to Gojo’s father, lashes lowering with a grace that made the threat even sharper.
Her lips parted, forming a single, silent sentence:
“I don’t need a future to end yours.”
The color drained from his face.
Gojo’s father stumbled back a single step, and that was all it took. One waver in posture. One fracture in pride. One tremor visible to every watching eye.
The strongest clan in Japan watched their former head recoil from a woman half his age.
A woman who now stood beneath the chandeliers with her spine aligned like a blade and her husband—their strongest—standing behind her, the very image of devotion and danger woven into one.
But Satoru did not intervene. He didn’t need to.
He understood something the others did not:
Utahime had been dangerous long before she became his wife.
Long before she stepped into the Gojo estate wrapped in crimson.
Long before the elders realized the pretty girl they thought they could control had teeth.
A memory moved through Satoru—not an image, but a sensation, the way blood smells when it’s fresh and hot on cold marble.
The Zenin's elder body collapsing at Utahime’s feet.
Her breathing ragged, uneven—not from fear, but grudge she had been taught to swallow since childhood.
She didn’t bother wiping the blood off her face.
“utahime"
His throat tightened. He had never seen her like that—Utahime, who always kept her hands clean, who always controlled the game. This time, she had stepped into the fire herself.
He moved to her, cupping her cheeks, wiping the streaks of blood with trembling fingers.
“Who did this to you?” The anger in his voice was a barely contained quake.
Utahime laughed, a sharp, chilling sound that made the hairs on his neck stand on end. She shoved his hands away.
“Where have you been?” she screamed at him. “Do you have any idea what almost happened to me?”
She turned and walked past him, her steps steady despite the chaos she’d just walked out of.
Satoru followed, catching her wrist. “Uta, look at me. Are you hurt? Shouldn’t we go to the hospital?”
She stopped.
Slowly, she turned to him.
Her eyes were dark, glinting with something feral and controlled. His hand trembled around hers.
“Satoru.”
“Yeah?”
She stepped closer, close enough that he could smell iron on her breath and feel the heat rolling off her fury.
“How far will you go for me?”
“Hime—”
“Answer me”
Her eyes glinted—wet, unbroken, burning straight through him.
“What’s the furthest you would go for me?” she whispered, the words pulled tight with strain and something dangerously close to desperation.
He held her gaze. “You already know. If it’s for you, I won’t stop.”
She shook her head once, a tremor running through her shoulders. “Not enough.”
“It is,” he said, stepping closer until her breath brushed his jaw. “I’ll do anything for you. Anything, as long as it doesn’t—”
“Marry me, Satoru.”
She said it like a curse. Like a vow. Like the last thread she had left.
Her smile was a wound—thin, trembling, painful to look at.
And that was the moment he realized:
She wasn’t asking for love. She was asking for destruction and she wanted him to be the one who held the knife.
“Fine,” she said, her tone deceptively calm, as if she were offering him a choice he didn’t truly have. “if you don’t want to… I won’t make you.”
He should have refused. Anyone else would have refused. But his love for her had never been gentle, and it had never once allowed him to walk away.
The memory tore itself into the present—Utahime standing in the Gojo hall, unshaken, untouchable, and every bit as dangerous as the night she threw those words at him.
And he had done it. He always had because she could have asked for anything—his strength, his loyalty, his life and he would’ve placed it in her hands with a smile.
The hall eventually dissolved into noise. Guests whispered. Elders scattered. Servants scrambled to repair the ceremony’s broken dignity. Somewhere in the corner, a pair of distant relatives muttered insults about the Gojo clan, too frightened to speak above a whisper.
None of it reached Utahime.
She stood at the buffet table, spoon in hand, her expression curving into something deceptively soft when she saw him approach.
“Satoru,” she called. “Try this.”
He stepped toward her as if pulled by gravity. She lifted a small piece of sweet, and he leaned down without hesitation. Her fingers brushed his mouth as she fed him, her smile serene, unbothered, a queen entertaining the world she just conquered.
For a brief moment, it was painfully easy to believe she belonged nowhere but at his side.
The ceremony ended soon after. The clan dispersed, rattled and resentful. His parents walked past the murmuring guests without sparing a single glance.
Utahime only pouted.
When they reached their room, Gojo closed the door behind them, leaning against it for a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
Utahime, already across the room, was peeling off one of the long, velvet-red gloves. She didn't look at him, but her movements were slow, deliberate, savoring the release of the night’s tension.
“I believe,” Satoru said, his voice dropping into the low, easy tease he reserved only for her, “you owe me a large thank you, My Lady Iori.”
He straightened, pushing off the door. He crossed the room in two long strides, his eyes tracing the line of the crimson dress that had caused a thousand apoplexies tonight.
“I had to publicly humiliate my father, threaten my mother, and bankrupt a distant cousin just because you preferred red over white,” he continued, reaching her side and running a finger along her cheekbone. “That deserves at least a kiss. Possibly two. Depends on how well you play”
She didn’t lean in.
“Satoru,” she said quietly. Her gaze was level, cutting past the flirtation and right to the core of him.
“You think I can’t tell how you feel?” She stepped back, placing a breath of distance between them. “I can see through your smile.”
“And what exactly do you see, Hime?” he asked, his voice losing its playful edge, becoming deep and serious.
“Satoru,” she murmured. “You know I don’t really care if you get hurt.”
His chest stilled.
She lifted her eyes to his—the same eyes that once searched him through smoke and blood, demanding to know how far he would go.
“I don’t care if the world wounds you,” she said, her tone steady, almost gentle. “But I don’t want to be the hand that does it.”
The words were so bare they almost trembled.
“Because if I hurt you,” she whispered, and then, in a rare, desperate surrender, she moved into him, wrapping her arms tightly around his torso, “I’ll lose you.”
Gojo caressed her hair, his fingers stroking the damp, silken strands near her nape. “Utahime, you know you won’t lose me,” he said. “Even if you do hurt me.”