I’m in love with my wife (send help)
You and Satoru had been in an arranged marriage for a year now, and one night, after months of yearning, everything finally comes crashing together
Tags: explicit sex, emotional sex, soft sex, angst, p eating, body worship, multiple orgasms, crying during sex, love confession
wc: 6k
Satoru had really screwed up this time. Badly. He could tell in the way you moved in silence. The way you watched quietly as the girl he brought home stormed out while you were coming back to the house from some outing.
Your eyes hadn't met his since. It's been three hours. Three hours of your quiet moving through the house like a ghost he couldn't touch. Usually he kept his… acquaintances far away from you. He never brought them home, no matter how hard they begged. But he'd been careless. And drunk. And before he knew it he had the girl at his house, your house, and once he'd realized what he'd done he kicked her out. She'd slapped him, her ring cutting his cheek, and left just as you were coming in.
He watched you, feeling like a child in trouble—which was a sensation so foreign to him it sat wrong in his chest, too tight, too unfamiliar. Satoru Gojo didn't answer to anyone. He never had. He was the strongest, untouchable, untethered. But here he was, hovering in his own kitchen like a kicked puppy, waiting for you to acknowledge him.
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. And yet he couldn't make himself stop.
He knew your marriage was of convenience. The two of your clans forcing a marriage upon you two for the sake of tradition. And the two of you had agreed. On your wedding night, the day you met, you'd see other people and be discreet about it.
It's been a year. A year and he's grown accustomed to this shaky routine you two have. He'd come home, you'd make food. You were quiet most of the time. Polite. Keeping to yourself. But always took his feelings and opinions into consideration. When you were remodeling the house you checked with him with every change, made sure he liked it, made sure you put things he'd be happy with. You made dinner. Things he liked. And sweets you knew he'd love. You were observant. Especially to him.
The two of you had formed a friendship. Quiet nights where he'd come home and find you reading. He'd eat the leftovers you'd made him and plop down on the couch and disrupt your quiet time by asking a million questions about what was going on in the book. You never got annoyed. It was your superpower, he used to tell himself. You were the only person who didn't get annoyed by him.
You'd set your book down and tell him all about it and he'd just watch you. In your cute pajamas and your hair braided and your glasses he only ever saw on you at night. And faintly he'd think you were so beautiful it wasn't fair. He'd also think he was the only one who got to see you like this. And for some reason he held onto that small possession for dear life, for reasons he didn't want to analyze too carefully—didn't want to pick at, the way you didn't pick at a healing wound.
But getting back to now. Now you were ignoring him. And he felt small. And he didn't know how to fix it. You set the table and he stands uselessly. He studies your face as you sit down, drinking in every line of it, the careful neutrality you'd arranged over your features like armor. He sits across from you, foot tapping on the floor.
He looks at his bowl.
"You made curry,” he states stupidly.
"Astute observation," you remark and still refuse to look at him.
He almost smiles. He would've smiled if it weren't for the tension pressing down on the room like a held breath. There she is. Another thing he admired about you was your ability to be so effortlessly cutting. When it was deserved of course.
"Yeah…" he says, playing with his spoon. What is wrong with him? He knows why you're mad. He brought a girl here. Here. Home. To his and your space. He ruined the fragile stability of the home— the quiet, careful thing the two of you had built together without ever naming it. "I sent her away. I kicked her out—when I realized what I did I—"
"I didn't ask," you cut him off, taking a long bite of your food.
He didn't know how to fix things. Satoru Gojo wasn't made for this. Not marriage. He never was. It's part of the reason he stayed away from you. He knew in the end he'd always hurt you. He just hadn't expected it to feel like this—like something caving in inside of him.
Then you glance up at him for the first time, eyes tracking his face. You set your spoon down and wordlessly get up, his gaze following your every move like it's sacred, like he's cataloguing you. You come back out with a cotton swab and cleaner. He frowns in confusion when you sit directly in front of him and grasp his chin in your grip.
"She shouldn't have hit you," you whisper. Your touch is so gentle it makes the back of his throat ache. You dab at his cheek with the wet cotton ball, cleaning him like he's something worth tending to.
Fuck. You're a saint. You always have been.
"You don't feel that urge sometimes? I'm very hittable," he says and smiles—but it's not his usual smirk, all sharp edges and performance. It's quieter than that. More honest. Vulnerable in a way he'd never let anyone else see.
"Of course not," you say, eyebrows drawing in. "I wouldn't ever hit you. That's abuse."
He wants to laugh. He wants to tease you but this— whatever this is— is far too fragile to poke at. His eyes flick down to your lips. He wants to kiss you. He's noticed over the last four months, maybe longer, that he always wants to kiss you. That your lips look soft and smooth and he remembers exactly what they felt like on their wedding night—the only night he's allowed himself to really have you. He has to physically stop himself from glancing down at your thighs that were excruciatingly close to his face. Down, boy.
"I wasn't nice to her," he says, because he needs to keep talking or he'll do something reckless.
"That doesn't justify violence. She hurt you."
"I'm fine. It's just a scratch." He tries for a smile but your expression doesn't budge. You put a bandaid on his face with the same steady hands you do everything with and his heart does something embarrassing in his chest. Why do you have to be so goddamn sweet?
"Satoru," you start, holding your chin high in that way you do before you state something you absolutely believe in. "I don't want any more women in the house. Do you… do you honestly not realize how disrespectful that is to me—?"
"I know," he cuts you off, closing his eyes. For once he's serious. This is the type of situation where he needs to be serious. The smirk, the bravado, the arrogant deflection—none of that works on you. It never has. "I know. It won't happen again. I'm sorry." A beat. Then again quieter, "I'm sorry, princess."
Satoru Gojo apologizes. And you are the only person who will ever get him to. Despite everything. You are his wife and he respects that. He respects you. Or he thought he did. He's not sure what he thought anymore.
You get up and go back to your own spot. The rest of dinner is spent in silence. He doesn't understand. He apologized. Why are you still mad? Why can't you go back to teasing him like you always do? Why does the distance between you across a small table feel like miles?
After dinner he follows you around like a lost puppy — which is humiliating, really, the great Satoru Gojo trailing after someone like he needs their approval to exist. But he can feel the disappointment radiating from you and he hates it. Wants to tear it up. Wants a time machine so he can go back and not fuck everything up.
Once you get to the bedroom—technically it was both of yours but it was yours more than his. Satoru sleeps in the guest room. The arrangement had made sense, once. Now it just felt like a reminder of all the space he'd put between them on purpose.
"I said it won't happen again," he repeats. He needs you to say something. Anything.
"Do you want a gold star?" You snap, whirling around suddenly. This is the angriest he's ever seen you, and something shameful and fascinated in him thinks, god she’s beautiful like this. "You shouldn't have done it in the first place!"
"I know—"
You shove at his chest suddenly. Coming from the woman who just said violence wasn't the answer. He must really bring out the worst in you. "Did you sleep with her in our bed?"
"No!" He insists. "No—fuck no— I didn't touch her. Not in this house at least. Not in your space. I wouldn't— come on, princess. You know I wouldn't do that."
"Do I?"
And that hits him somewhere unprotected. Right in the middle of his chest where he doesn't usually let people reach.
"As soon as I realized what was happening I kicked her out. I swear. I swear it."
Silence. But he can see some of the tension loosen from your shoulders, just slightly. Enough.
He shifts on his feet, jaw working. "Can I sleep in here tonight?"
It's bold to ask but he asks anyway. For some reason he feels clingy, desperate in a way he'd never admit out loud. Sleeping without you, tonight of all nights, sounds like a particular kind of misery he doesn't want to sit with.
"I suppose," you say, and disappear into the bathroom.
Satoru stares at the door for a long moment before shedding his clothes. He climbs into your side of the bed first by accident, then corrects himself, then wonders why he corrected himself. He pulls the sheets back and sinks into them and breathes. They smell like you. Sweet. He hears the water running and he knows you're washing your face. He's watched you do it enough times that he could close his eyes and see every step. He loves that you take care of yourself. That you're so sure of yourself in every aspect of life, so unhurried. It's damning. And he's envious of your stillness, which is ironic considering who he is—what he is.
If he's being completely honest, which he isn't often, only in rare moments like this when the walls come down because he's too tired to hold them up, he stays away from you on purpose. Because he knows— truly knows—that he could love you. Not the convenient kind. Not the quiet understanding kind. The kind that would swallow him whole and leave nothing behind. And it's nauseating. Terrifying. So he pushes you away, keeps the guest room, keeps his distance, keeps his acquaintances. But the feeling still lingers. It lingers in the soft glances and the soft touches and the way you look after him —the man who takes care of everyone else and has never once known how to be taken care of in return. It lingers.
He shouldn't be in here. He should be in the guest room. Far from you. Far from all of it.
But when you emerge from the bathroom he doesn't leave.
You'd changed. Pink silk pajamas, shorts and a tank top, your hair braided in one long braid down your shoulder, glasses perched on your nose.
Shit.
This is his favorite version of you. He's never told you that. He probably never will.
You slide into bed, careful to keep to your side, and he gets a slow drift of your scent—pure sugar and vanilla, like a goddamn bakery, like something made to ruin him. He's always had a weakness for sweet things.
It wasn't the first time the two of you had shared a bed. It had happened a couple times over the last year, always for some mundane reason or another. And every time, he regrets it in the morning. Because every time, he wakes up wanting more, and he doesn't know what to do with that.
"You always put that stuff on?" He finds himself murmuring, before he can think better of it.
"Hmm?" You raise an eyebrow and turn on your side to face him so the two of you are eye to eye. The small lamp on your nightstand throws warm light across your face. He has to remind himself to breathe at a reasonable pace.
"That lotion or whatever. It smells good."
"Oh," you say, and then you smile. Soft. Just barely. His chest constricts so fast it nearly winds him. Your first smile all day and he doesn't even feel like he's earned it, which makes it somehow worse. "It's body oil. Not lotion."
"Oh," he murmurs back.
Body oil. Of course it is. Of course.
Your scent reaches him again, curling through the small space between them, and something in him—the part that is always, always holding back—simply gives. He can't stop himself from leaning forward, closing the distance, and burying his face in the curve of your neck. The exhale that leaves him is involuntary. He inhales you in like he's been starving for it.
You don't shove him off.
You should. You both know you should.
His lips find the column of your throat, not kissing, not yet, just skimming. The barest suggestion of pressure. Waiting. Asking a question he doesn't have the courage to say out loud.
"W-what—" your voice comes out broken, barely a whisper. "What are you doing?"
The sound of you stuttering does something irreversible to him. His lips trace upward, slow as anything, mapping the soft skin just below your jaw. Still not a real kiss. Still holding himself at the edge of it.
"Kissing my wife." The words come out low, rougher than he intends. And then finally, after a year, after all the careful distance and deliberate coldness and every night he made himself walk to the guest room —he presses a real kiss below your jaw. Slow. Aching. Like he's savoring something he's been denying himself for so long he's forgotten what it felt like to want something this badly.
"Fuck—" he breathes against your skin, the curse more of a prayer.
Your hands find his shoulders. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just gripping, like you need something to hold onto. Like you're as undone as he is and trying not to show it. It only urges him on.
"Satoru." His name on your lips in that wrecked little exhale is the single most devastating sound he's ever heard in his life. "We shouldn't."
He presses another kiss just behind your ear, where the vanilla is warmest. He lingers there. His eyes fall shut.
"Why?" He breathes it against your skin, then shifts until he's half over you, bracing his weight carefully on his forearms so he can look down at your face. He needs to see you. "Tell me why, because I can't think of a single reason right now. I can't think of anything but you."
You're looking up at him and your expression is—god, you're going to destroy him. You're looking at him like you've been holding something back too. Like maybe he isn't the only one who's been keeping distance on purpose.
"Because," you say, and it's not an answer, and you both know it's not an answer.
So he doesn't stop.
He traces his mouth up your cheek, the curve of it, your temple, the center of your forehead. Unhurried. Worshipful. He has spent a year keeping himself from this and he refuses to rush now that he's finally here. Every kiss is a confession he doesn't know how to make with words. Every brush of his lips says I notice you and I think about you and you're the only person who has ever made me feel small and safe at the same time.
"You're so beautiful," he murmurs against your skin, the words spilling out of him like a secret he can't keep anymore. "Do you know that? Do you have any idea what you do to me, just... existing?"
His mouth reaches the corner of yours and he stops. Waits. His heartbeat is embarrassingly loud in his own ears.
And then you move first.
You're the one who crosses the last impossible inch. You're the one who presses your lips into his, soft and certain, like you've decided something.
Holy shit. My wife is kissing me.
Your lips are slow, consuming, devastatingly unhurried. Like you've thought about how you'd do this and you are not going to let him rush you. He's been kissed before. Many times. By many people. None of it felt like this—like being unmade. Like being seen. He makes a sound low in his throat that he'll be embarrassed about later, melting into you and your sweet touch before he can stop himself. His hand finds your jaw, your cheek, tilting your face up toward him like he'll get more of you that way.
He matches your rhythm, your pace, letting the fire catch slow—slow and sizzling and inevitable, like something that was always going to happen, like something that should have happened months ago, like maybe the whole year has just been them circling this moment and finally, finally falling in.
Then you slide your tongue in with his and he groans, deep and guttural. His hips move slightly against you before he can stop himself, letting you feel just how much he aches for you. "You feel that?" he rasps, breaking the kiss just long enough to speak. "That's all you. That's what you do to me. No one else—just you."
"Satoru," you gasp against his lips and that's all he wants to hear for the rest of his life is his name from your mouth. "Please."
He kisses down now, down your throat, allowing himself to claim you. His his his. All of you. His wife. He sucks on every inch of skin, hungry, desperate. "Please what, baby? Tell me what you want." His voice is wrecked, pleading. "I'll give you anything. Anything. Just tell me."
"Please touch me," you plead, arching into his hands that are on your waist.
"Fuck." The word is punched out of him. "Fuck, you have no idea what that does to me." One of his hands slide up your belly, under your loose tank top and cups your breast. He marvels at how well you fill out his hand, how perfect every inch of you is for him. "You're so perfect. So goddamn perfect."
"Can I..?" He asks you, already breathless.
You respond by flinging your tank top off for him.
"Oh fuck," he says when he gets a good look at you, his voice barely above a whisper, reverent. "Look at you. Just—look at you." Of course he's seen you naked before. On your wedding night. But this is different. Way different. That night had been about business and honor and consummating for the cameras so the old fucking elders could watch.
But this is different. This is just you two.
His mouth joins his hand, he can't help but taste, drawing in your pretty peaked nipple into his warm mouth. He needs to taste every inch of you. Needs to worship you. Needs it more than he needs to get off. He nibbles and sucks and when you gasp his name again he groans against your skin, the vibration making you shiver. "God, you taste sweet. Like candy. Like my new favorite thing."
"Please," You moan and arch into him.
He pulls back just enough to smirk at you, but it's soft, fond—the arrogance tempered into something almost tender. "Please what? Use your words, pretty girl. I want to hear you." He's not done playing with your pretty tits. So you can beg all you like. But he's taking his sweet time. He switches to the other breast to show it just as much attention. Fuck. My wife has perfect tits, he thinks to himself. Taste so sweet. So pretty. So perfect. This is heaven. His face is buried in your breasts while you plead with him for more. If he died right now he'd die the happiest he's ever been.
Your nails dig into his shoulder in warning. He smiles against your nipple, latching off of it to look at you wickedly. "You have no idea," he murmurs against your skin, "how long I've—" He stops. Switches his mouth to your other breast instead of finishing the sentence. That's too much. That's too honest. But his hands tighten on you, and maybe that says it anyway.
"Please, Satoru!" you moan, arching sharply. Unable to tell him properly what you want. Just that you’re aching for more.
"No," he says simply, against your nipple, but his voice is warm, teasing. "Not yet. I'm not done. I could do this all night." He can feel your frustration and he loves it. He smiles against your skin. "I'm not done."
Your nails drag into his shoulder in warning and he laughs—actually laughs, quiet and warm— and lifts his head just enough to look at you. Your brows are furrowed, jaw dropped, completely wrecked, and he has done that to you, he has, and it's the best thing he's ever seen in his life.
"Don't give me that look," he says, holding eye contact as he slowly swirls his tongue over the peak. "I told you. I'm. Not. Done. You're so sensitive, baby. It's driving me crazy."
A tiny whimper escapes you and suddenly he feels your body snap, shaking uncontrollably. He watches your face contort in its peak of pleasure, his own eyes going wide with awe. He keeps sucking, amazed, watching you.
When your body stops and your huffing is when he unlatches. "Holy shit, baby," he says absolutely in awe, kissing your sternum over and over like he can't get enough. "You just came from me sucking on your pretty tits? Just from that?" He laughs, disbelieving, delighted. "That was the hottest thing I've ever seen. Ever."
He's never made a woman cum like that. Ever. Fuck.
A flush travels up your neck, embarrassment on your face. Your hands slap over your cheeks to hide.
He smiles against your skin. "No, don't hide," he kisses up your chest before reaching your chin. He tugs on your wrist gently. "Come on, look at me."
"Shut up."
His smile gets bigger, he kisses your hand that's covering your face. "Don't be embarrassed. Baby, that was so fucking hot." He kisses more, murmurs against your skin, muffled, "fucking sexy. You're fucking sexy. I can't believe you're—"
Mine. But he doesn’t say that. He can’t.
Your grip loosens and he finally gets you to look at him. He doesn't hesitate when your lips are free. He kisses them, pulling you into a slow kiss, grinding into you, letting you know just how much he likes it when you cum for him.
"More," you gasp against his mouth.
"Yeah?" He grins, nipping at your lower lip. "You want more? Because I've got plenty."
Oh he can do more.
His hand travels down, yanking your shorts down and throwing them somewhere. He licks his lips when he sees your pink lace panties. "So fucking cute," he breathes. "Everything you wear is fucking cute. I want to buy you more of this. I want to take you shopping and get you pretty pink bras and panties and lingerie and then I want to take them off you. Slowly."
He spreads your thighs with both his hands then brings his thumb up to press down on your clit through your panties.
"Mmm!" You whine and arch again. You're so sensitive. Probably the most sensitive girl he's ever been with. He can probably make you cum just from pressing on your pretty little bundle a couple of times.
He marvels at how wet you are, soaking the panties through just from getting your nipples played with. "All of this," he murmurs, almost to himself, "just for me. You're soaked, baby. All for me."
His mouth waters at the sight. He takes what he wants. He leans down and sucks on your clit through the fabric, he feels your hands frantically claw at him and your surprised moan but he can't process any of it. His eyes roll back and he devours you, sucking you, his tongue rolling around the sensitive bud while he makes out with your cunt. It's as slow and aching as when he was kissing your throat only now it was your most sensitive area. He moans against you, the sound vibrating through you. "God, you taste so good. I could stay here forever."
His hands slide under your ass, clutching the globes and pressing you into his mouth. This is bliss.
"You taste so good," he groans against you. "Why didn't we do this sooner. Why did I wait so long—should've been eating your pretty cunt months ago—I'm such an idiot—"
"Ssatoru!" Your hand flies to his white strands, gripping at the root. "Oh—yes yes yes."
He moves his head to a rhythm, encouraged by your moans. He needs you to cum just like this. Through the fabric. Just from him kissing your cunt sloppy. He slides his tongue hot and wet along your clit over and over, then nibbles around the bud. "That's it," he chants against you. "Come on, baby. Cum for me again. I want to feel it."
"Ah! Mm cuming—I'm cumming!" You shout and shake around him as your orgasm crashes over you. He keeps going, drawing out every last bit of pleasure he can take. Your hands tighten to the point of it being painful but then loosen once you've come down from your high.
"That's it. That's my girl." He presses a soft kiss to your clothed core, gentle now. "So good. You're so good."
He's reluctant to pull away. Him and your cunt are just getting acquainted. Becoming good friends if you will. But he does. He pulls up and kisses your quaking belly before resting his forehead against yours. You're staring in a daze and he could get addicted to that expression. No he always is. He wants another one. And another one. He wants at least four.
"Two," he whispers more to himself.
"Two?" You frown.
He grins, but it's soft, almost shy— which looks strange on someone usually so insufferably confident. "I want at least four. At least. I'm not done with you yet. Not even close."
Your eyes widen cutely. "Satoru…" you breathe and reach up, cupping the side of his face. He nearly shivers, leaning into your palm, nuzzling like a cat. Your hands feel so good on him he mutters your name. "I want you."
You want him. He turns his face into your hand and kisses softly, breathing you in. He nods. A part of him can't believe this is happening. He never thought—he never thought they would get here. And he's hit suddenly by how dangerous this is. After this there's no going back. There isn't. He won't be able to. "I want you too," he whispers, voice cracking. "I've wanted you for so long. I was just too scared to—" He shakes his head, unable to finish. "I'm here now. I'm here."
He slides down your panties and you lift your hips to help him. Your desperate eyes looking into him is too much. He needs to be inside you.
In one swift motion, he kicks off his own pants and boxers together—no grace or elegance here, just urgency—and then hovers over you again, bare chest to bare chest now as he lines himself up with trembling restraint. He was achingly hard, his cock swollen and desperate for you.
His hands cradle either side of your face for a heartbeat, gazing into your eyes, so much left to say, before he finally murmurs against those lips: "Look at me. I want to see you. And… tell me if I need to stop. Promise me."
He waits for you to nod before pushing forward, just an inch, losing himself in your tight warm cunt. Fuck fuck fuck. "Oh—god—you're so tight—"
Your hands fly up, eager to grasp onto something for leverage and find his shoulder.
He pushes deeper. He watches your face—watches as you take every inch of him, your eyebrows scrunching at the stretch and fucking—it's the hottest thing he's ever seen. "That's it," he breathes. "Take all of me. You feel so good. So perfect." He finally bottoms out inside you and you whimper, nails digging into his shoulders. He's not faring any better. The feeling of your tight cunt sucking him in is almost too much, he drops his face into your neck trying to control himself. "Give me a second," he pants.
He finally bottoms out inside you and you whimper, nails digging into his shoulders. He's not faring any better. The feeling of your tight cunt sucking him in is almost too much—"Shit, you feel—fuck, you feel incredible"—he drops his face into your neck trying to control himself.
He has a moment of clarity. This is you. His wife. Not some random girl he picked up at a bar. This is important. This means something.
He gives you both a second before pulling back, almost all the way out before thrusting back in.
"Fuck," he grunts at the same time you say, "Satoru!" You arch your back into him, desperate for more. And he wants you to feel more. He wants to drive you crazy. So he does it again and again, slow deep thrusts. He's never had sex like this before. Not this aching hungry sort of rhythm.
"God, you're so tight," he groans against your skin. "So perfect. Feel you squeezing me—fuck, baby—"
He smiles against your skin as your nails dig into him. "That's it," he murmurs in your ear, completely fascinated by the way you're taking him. "So fucking beautiful. Just feel it. All of it. You feel so good wrapped around me—so fucking good—"
You surprise him by turning your head and catching his lips. He groans into your mouth, deep and desperate. He raises one of his hands to interlock with one of yours, pressing it into the pillows by your head, thrusting his hips at the same agonizing pace. This. This is pure intensity, pure bliss, pure frustration. The intimacy hits him like a punch to the chest.
This isn't casual sex. This isn't some fling or obligation. We are holding hands. We are married. And I am so completely in lo—
He breaks the kiss only to press his forehead against yours, breathing hard as he sets an even rhythm of slow but deep thrusts that let you both feel every inch of connection. Every roll of his hips says more than words could right now.
"You have no idea," he says against your lips, voice cracked open in a way he'd never let anyone hear. "What you do to me. You have absolutely no idea." He thrusts deeper, and a broken sound escapes him. "Been wanting this—wanting you—for so long. So fucking long."
Every roll of his hips is a sentence. I'm sorry I kept you at arm's length. I'm sorry I was a coward. I'm sorry I brought her here. I'm yours. I think I've always been yours.
He pushes as deep as he can, trying to mark you as much as he can. "Want you to feel me tomorrow," he rasps. "Want you to walk around and know—know you're mine." So you remember this. So this haunts you the way it will haunt him. The way you have haunted him for months, in the soft lamp-lit image of you and your glasses and your braided hair and your books. You consume him.
"Need you to remember," he rasps, barely coherent, "remember this. Remember my name on your lips. Remember how good we fit together."
Remember me.
Your legs come up to wrap around his waist, pulling him deeper into your cunt. "Oh—oh fuck," he breathes, the sensation nearly undoing him. One hand moves from your hip to your thigh, holding your legs around him. "Just like that—yeah, just like that, baby—wrap yourself around me—"
You gaze into his eyes, nudging your nose with his softly.
It feels like too much. Tears fill his eyes and he hides his face away in your neck, hips picking up speed. "You're everything," he whispers against your skin, voice breaking. "Everything. I can't—I can't believe I almost—"
He feels your fingers run through his hair, nails gliding over his scalp and he knows what the touch is. It’s a silent, I’ve got you.
You always take care of him. But right now he needs to take care of you.
He hitches your legs higher, changing the angle slightly so his cock hits deeper inside you.
"Satoru!" You moan, hand tightening on his and in his hair. "I'm—ah—I'm close—Toru—so close."
"Yeah? You gonna cum for me?" His voice is wrecked. "Wanna feel it—wanna feel you come apart on my cock—" He feels your pussy clench around him—tightening—and it sends a shockwave of pleasure through his entire body. But even more than that? The way your hips start moving in perfect sync with his, meeting every thrust like the two of you have been doing this forever instead of just tonight…
A broken noise leaves his throat. Fuck. He's close too.
"Cum for me again." His voice comes out rough when he murmurs in your ear. "Cum with me. Want us to—fuck—want to feel you—"
"Ah-!" You moan and your body obeys, shaking and trembling around him as you reach your peak. "Satoru Satoru—S—'Toru!"
You chanting his name in your little slurred voice is like fucking heroin. "That's it—that's my good girl—" His thrusts grow frantic and then stutter. He groans low in his throat, saying your name like a prayer as he cums, electricity lighting down his spine. "Oh god—fuck—I'm—yes—"
He pumps you full of his cum, spurt after spurt. And it's like every atom in his body is electrified. Telling him how right this is. This is where he's always supposed to cum. Inside you. Over and over.
He collapses against you, still buried deep, trembling. He nuzzles into your neck, completely spent. After minutes of just catching each others breaths lets himself look at you. Your eyes crack open and he gets a glimpse of those beautiful irises.
“Hey,” you murmur, reaching up to slide your fingers through his white curls. Then you do that thing again, you nudge him with your nose.
Fuck.
“Hey,” he says back. Then with absolute surety. “I love you.”
Because he does. He has. This entire time. He's loved you. He was just terrified of what that meant. And that's what this was. It was love. The two of you didn't just have sex. You made love.
Your eyes widen, shocked, mouth opening then closing. “But Satoru—“
“But what?” He cuts you off. He finally rolls off of you and it feels wrong. His body protests. His heart clenches being ripped away from where it belongs. He glares at the ceiling suddenly. What if there is someone else? The two of you had agreed on an open marriage. And he'd never had the courage before to ask if there was another man. “Is there another guy? Is that why you don't love me? I don't care if there's another man you love. I'm your husband. Me. And I'll make you love me back. I swear it.” The arrogance bleeds back in — the absolute certainty that he can win you, that he will win you, because Satoru Gojo doesn't lose. Not at anything. Not even this.
“Would you shut up?” You snap and suddenly you roll on top of him, fully straddling him and everything in his mind turns to mush. He stares up at you in awe. Your messy braid, your bare breasts covered in marks from him. “There's no other guy. There's never been another guy Satoru. And—of course I love you. I've always …”
“You do?” He asks hopeful, sitting up on his elbows to get closer to you. The arrogance flickers, replaced by something raw and young and desperate.
You get distracted, eyes flicking to his lips but then you come to your senses and push him back down, hand to his chest. “That's not the point! Why now? Why do you love me now? It doesn't make any sense. No —No you're just feeling guilty about what you did and you don't know how to process that emotion.”
“Don't tell me what I feel.”
You open your mouth again but he stops you.
“I love you," he repeats, and his voice breaks on it, cracks right down the middle and he doesn't try to hide it. "I know I do. I know it the way I know everything that matters—in my bones, in my gut, in the part of me that doesn't lie." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are glassy and fierce at once, like a man confessing something he's been carrying so long it's left marks. "I knew the night I met you. Our wedding night—when I was cold to you, when I was cruel and distant and I told myself it meant nothing—" His jaw tightens. "I knew then. Standing there in front of you I knew and it felt like the ground disappearing under my feet."
He exhales, shaky, his hands cradling your face like you might vanish.
“Do you understand what that's like? For me? There is nothing in this world that scares me. Nothing. I have faced things that would break most people and I didn't flinch." His thumb swipes across your cheek. "And then there was you. You in your quiet way, learning me without asking permission, taking care of me without making me feel small— you scared me more than anything I've ever walked toward." His voice drops to barely a whisper. "Why do you think I kept running? I wasn't running from you. I was running because you know me. The real parts. The ugly parts. You see straight through all of it and that is the most terrifying thing anyone has ever done to me."
His forehead drops to yours. He closes his eyes.
"I kept waiting for you to give up on me," he admits, quieter now, the confession scraped raw from somewhere deep. "I kept waiting for you to get tired of the distance. The coldness. The other women." His throat works. "I think part of me wanted you to. Because if you gave up on me I'd have an excuse to keep the wall up. Keep telling myself it wasn't real. That it didn't mean anything." A broken sound escapes him, something between a laugh and a sob. "But you just — you kept making me dinner. You kept asking if I liked the curtains. You kept leaving the light on."
He opens his eyes.
"Do you know what it did to me every time I came home at two in the morning and the light was on? Because you wanted me to be able to find my way in the dark?" His voice fractures on the last word. "You were taking care of me. Nobody has ever— I have never let anyone — "
He stops. Steadies himself. Tries again.
"I don't know how to do this," he says honestly. "I need you to know that going in. I'm going to mess up. I'm probably going to get scared and I'm probably going to say something stupid and push you away again." His hands tighten gently around your face. "But I'm telling you right now, in this moment where I am more sure than I have ever been of anything—I will always come back. I will always come back to you. Because there is no version of my life that makes sense without you in it anymore and I stopped being able to pretend there was."
The room is so quiet.
You're looking at him and he feels completely stripped —no armor, no smirking, no deflection. Just Satoru. Just the man underneath all of it, who learned your nighttime routine by heart and memorized which sweets you liked and held onto the fact that he was the only one who got to see you in your glasses like it was something holy.
"Say something," he whispers. "Please. You can yell at me if you want. You can tell me it's too late. But please say something because I have never in my life said any of that to anyone and the silence is going to kill me."
And then suddenly tears fall from your pretty eyes and onto his thumbs and his heart shatters.
“Shh,” he whispers, “don’t cry baby.”
You lean forward and catch his lips in a soft emotional kiss. “Took you long enough,” you murmur against him.
A laugh slips from his throat.
And for the first time in as long as he can remember— maybe for the first time ever—Satoru Gojo feels like he’s exactly where he is supposed to be.
He doesn't go back to the guest room that night.
He doesn't go back to the guest room ever again.
