peepoo

The second the back of his head touched the mattress, you sat on top of him, straddling his waist while covering both of your bodies with his comforter.

“It’s alright, I’ll repeat,” you smiled, savoring the warmth of his body. “Babe, I want you to tell me a bedtime story.”

Since the first time you two met, Iso had discovered a lot of feelings and emotions. He discovered what it was like to have a crush on someone when Jett finally made him on understood he had one on you. He discovered what was infatuation when you tackled him during a mission to make him avoid a shower of bullets and when you scolded him for underestimating his opponents. He discovered how fast a heart could beat when you confessed to him. He discovered how hot his face could feel when you two kissed for the first time. He discovered lust for the first time when you two sneaked in the base’s pool and ended up making out in the water. He discovered how it was to have chemistry with someone else when you two shared earbuds to listen to the same playlist after an exhausting mission. He discovered what cuteness aggression was the first time he saw you wearing one of his hoodies.

At the moment, he discovered he was able to feel an amalgamation of all these feelings and emotions. His hands joined your hip and your back as these were their rightful places.

“A bedtime story ?” he repeated. He looked up at your face with a confusion he knew you found adorable.

“It could be anything !” you precised. “Like your mission earlier today or…childhood anecdotes. It could even be cooking recipe if you want.”

Iso tilted his head, even more confused. “Cooking recipes can be considered bedtime stories ?”

Unable to resist, you cupped his face and pressed a few pecks on his lips.

“It should be illegal to be this cute !” you cooed. You then gently bit his cheek, relishing on the small gasp that escaped him. “I just wanna listen to you talking before falling asleep. I love your voice, it’s so soothing.”

Iso blinked before nodding. “Alright. Get comfortable.”

“Duh !” you chuckled and immediately lied down on top of him, your head on his chest. “All comfy.”

His hand found the back of your head and his fingers scratched your scalp the same way yours do so often. You let out a relaxed sigh.

“I once worked as a lifeguard,” he dropped.

“You did ?” you perked.

“Mmhmm,” he confirmed.

“I’m surprised by that piece of lore yet I shouldn't be since you love swimming. Tell me more.”

The soothing sensation of his chest vibrating at each words combined with his pacifying voice had the expected effect of lulling you. This night, Iso discovered the satisfaction of lifting the weight of the day off your shoulders.

I love reading your recent fics recently and I always get giddy when reading them, so thank you for writing so much for this fandom 👉👈

This fic ended a bit longer than planned... I think I like the nursing-back-to-health trope a bit too much. This isn't the first time I'm writing this trope. I remember writing it with Fade, Deadlock (kinda), Yoru (two times), Gekko and Iso (now being the second time). Most of the time, it's just pure fluff. And I am an avid fluff lover. But for the sake of the request, I'll make it a bit angsty this time.

It is still a bit surprising to know that people appreciate my fanfics ^^' Thanks for sharing this though. It is encouraging.

We are in a critical moment. Healthy food is scarce and very expensive, but if she can get it now, there’s hope for her to grow strong again.

Please, if you can help even a little, I beg you to support us. Your kindness means everything to us. 🙏💔

when it comes to you, it’s not just other people he’s wary of — it extends to animals and even inanimate objects such as your favorite plushie you like to cuddle to sleep in his absence. and then, the newest addition to his list of ever growing rivals appears to be a certain otome game you’ve been obsessed with lately — love and deepspace — or more specifically, the dreamy 3D love interests you’ve been swooning over in it.

as much as he’s trying to be mature about it — reminding himself that it’s just a game, a harmless hobby if you will — it proves very hard to stay rational when you’ve spent the last fifteen minutes giving those virtual guys more attention than the very real, very touchable, objectively better looking and currently very ignored husband sitting right across from you at the kitchen table.

you’re deeply immersed in your morning ritual — sipping your coffee while casually knocking out your daily lads tasks before you go about your day. but the peaceful rhythm of your routine is abruptly interrupted by a very audible sigh coming across the table. you glance up from your phone only to meet your husband’s blue eyes staring at you with a look that’s a mix between disapproval and betrayal.

The afternoon was calm and warm, with a soft sun streaming through the window and bathing the kitchen in golden tones. The light made everything look cozier: the table, the plates, the carefully placed white napkins, and Haruto’s little toys. The air smelled of freshly baked cookies, making the excitement in the room almost tangible.

Haruto, your four-year-old son, was sitting in his high chair, swinging his dangling feet lightly. His little hands rested on the table, barely touching the edges of the napkin on his plate, as if he wanted to feel the mystery hidden beneath. His big, bright eyes followed every movement, also watching his parents with curiosity. His breathing was light and fast, showing his contained excitement; his mouth opened and closed, as if trying to guess what was under the napkins.

You had carefully placed the cookies: two for Haruto, one for Satoru, and none for yourself. Each plate was arranged so that surprise and excitement would be at their peak, and the goal was to see if Haruto could react with generosity.

—Haruto, sweetie —you said in a soft, warm voice—, we’re going to play a game. Look at the plates, but don’t lift the napkin until we tell you.

The boy blinked and nodded slightly, rocking gently in his chair. His little hands tapped softly on the table as he tried to focus on what his parents were telling him. His eyes moved constantly between the plates, trying to figure out the scene.

Satoru lifted his napkin, revealing the single cookie on his plate. Haruto tilted his head toward his own plate and did the same: two golden, crispy cookies, perfect for him. His eyes widened slightly, and his small smile revealed a spark of childlike joy.

Then, before you did anything, Haruto looked toward your plate. Something in the light, the position of the napkin, alerted him: something wasn’t right. Before you could lift the napkin, his little face changed: a slight quiver in his lips, furrowed brows, eyes beginning to glisten.

You slowly lifted the napkin, and when he saw your plate was empty, Haruto let out a small, trembling “oh…” full of surprise and a sweet kind of pain that showed in his whole body. His lips quivered, his hands pressed lightly on the table, and a hesitant sob started to form as his chest rose and fell with each shaky breath.

—Oh… no… mommy… you don’t have… —he whispered, barely audible, as a tear rolled down his cheek.

The knot in your chest tightened instantly. Seeing him so aware of the unfairness and so empathetic, despite being so small, hurt and melted you at the same time. Satoru let out a soft laugh, amused, while you looked at him with your heart full of tenderness and emotion.

Haruto looked at his own cookies, and for a few seconds, he froze, as if deciding what to do. His lips pressed together slightly, and his breathing became deeper and measured, almost as if he were holding back his feelings to do something right. Finally, he took his two cookies in his tiny hands and carefully placed them in front of you.

—Mommy… you eat them… —he said, lowering his head, tears shining in his eyes.

But Haruto didn’t stop there. He gently lifted his hands and took yours with tenderness. He leaned in slightly, resting his little head against your arm, as if wanting to hug you and give you a kiss at the same time. His tears fell slowly as he sought comfort and also gave you love with that small, pure gesture.

—Thank you, my love… you’re so generous… —you whispered, hugging him carefully, feeling his small body tremble a little from the emotion—. You’re amazing. So you also deserve a cookie.

You grabbed a cookie from the table and handed it to Haruto, who finally took a very small bite of one of the cookies, just a tiny piece, making sure you had most of it. He pulled back slightly to look at you, still with soft sobs and shining eyes, and said in a small voice:

—I… I want a little too…

Satoru, with a wide smile, patted Haruto’s dark little head.

—Look how big you are, Haruto… so generous for your age.

The boy took a deep breath, relaxing a bit, and his sobs subsided. His small chest moved more calmly, and a shy smile appeared through the tears. Every gesture, from how he held your hands to how he rested his head on your arm while sharing his cookies, felt almost like a hug for the heart, sweet and painful at the same time.

The kitchen was filled with a special warmth: Haruto’s tenderness, your loving hugs, and Satoru’s soft laughter creating a perfect balance of gentle pain, joy, and fun. Every second seemed to slow down, making that moment engrave itself in their hearts as a unique memory, full of love, generosity, and infinite tenderness.

“dad really hasn’t changed,” your daughter comments, nose scrunching up with cringe while you flip through a photo album with her, and you laugh with a shake of your head.

you sit on the sofa with her, an angelic light filtering through the sheer curtains of the living room, which sway with the gentle breeze. the photo album rests on your lap, several pictures of you, satoru, and your friends from jujutsu high fading with creased corners behind the plastic slots.

in the background, there’s the sound of someone - your husband - cooking in the kitchen, the delicious aroma drifting to the living room.

his grin is so wide and goofy in the picture, you can practically hear his laughter through it.

you smile at the memories, reminiscing back to when you were all just students, some being silly, some cute, some random. like a telescope looking back into the past.

“why are you and dad glaring at each other in this picture? i don’t think i’ve ever seen him roll his eyes in your vicinity.”

you laugh again, both in fondness and amusement, knowing how right your daughter is. well, how right it is now. “believe it or not, we didn’t get along well when we were younger.”

“you and dad? not getting along? the most embarrassingly cheesy parents?”

“mhm,” you hum, absentmindedly. “he was too cocky for my liking. and he hated having someone who would challenge him.”

and you hear a loud “ahem” from the kitchen, your husband clearly listening in through the open door. he’s standing at the doorway moments later, apron tied around him, wooden spoon in hand, hand on his hip in such a sassy manner.

“i didn’t hate you. it was just... frustrating. but i always admired you. i mean, when you’d get all mad at me, it turned--”

“satoru,” you bluntly cut him off.

“what? i’m just telling the truth.” and there’s that smirk, lazy and smug, strewn across his lips like it pays rent there. “sometimes i’d rile you up on purpose. and i still do.”

“uh... i’m still here?” your daughter points out, clearly disgusted and wishing for the floor to swallow her up.

“yeah, how do you think you got here?” he snickers at his own joke.

“oh my god, just go back in the kitchen before something burns,” you say, shooting him a small glare. he grins, completely unaffected, eyes twinkling with mischief behind his tinted glasses.

“yes, ma’am.”

you roll your eyes half-playfully when he winks at you before disappearing back into the kitchen, though aware of your conversation with your daughter.

you both continue to flick through the pages of photos, your smile softening with each one, some eliciting a giggle.

“is that uncle sugu?” your daughter asks, pointing at a picture of suguru asleep with a poorly-drawn penis on his forehead by none other than satoru.

“yeah. he got revenge on your dad at the next sleepover. they’re such menaces when they’re together. it was always fun, though, despite the ups and downs. i’m glad we’re all still close.”

and this time, when satoru appears at the doorway again, there’s a softer, more genuine smile drawn upon his lips. clearly having similar thoughts as you. “dinner is ready, my princesses.”

you close the photo album and set it down gently on the coffee table as you stand up. once you reach satoru, he wraps an arm around your waist and kisses your forehead, inhaling your naturally sweet scent. suddenly re-energised, like after taking a hit of coke. he guides you to the dining table.

“how come mum never got upgraded to ‘queen’?” your daughter asks behind you two.

you smile, youthful and sunny. but not the obnoxious zenith of a summer sun. more like the nostalgic, autumn sun that brings comfort. “because, long before we had you, your dad told me that i’d always be his princess no matter what.”

synopsis. gojo can’t live without your affection.

contents. hurt/comfort, fluff, ooc, teenage gojo is an idiot, lovesick!gojo, in which he calls you clingy and immediately regrets it, slight crack

notes. can you tell seeing men pathetically grovel is one of my favorite things?... also, sorry to suguru stans out there.

“I don’t like that they’ve been sending you on so many missions,” you murmur, threading your fingers through your boyfriend’s silver locs. His hair has grown longer, a piece of evidence of just how little time he’s had to himself. To you. Yaga had been working him and Suguru like weapons instead of people, and it gnawed at you more each day.

Satoru flashes that signature smile of his, his shield of nonchalance. “Yeah, well. We’re the strongest, after all.”

His cerulean eyes meet yours, and you swear you see the whole endless sky inside them. And yet the softness there makes your chest ache. He looks at you like you’re gravity, the only thing tethering him to earth.

You lean in, press a quick kiss to his nose. He crinkles it but doesn’t push you away. The faint blush that paints his cheeks makes you laugh despite the heaviness in your chest. For a fleeting moment, it feels like the world is simple.

“Alright, lovebirds.” Suguru’s voice cuts sharp through the quiet, pulling you back down. He’s leaning against the lounge doorway, arms folded. “If we want to make it to Sendai by nightfall, we should head out.”

Satoru groans like a petulant child.

the clinic smells sharp, sterile, and your daughter’s chubby little hand curls in yours, fingers trembling just slightly. she’s trying not to cry, trying to be brave, but you can feel her tiny heartbeat speed up.

satoru crouches next to her, hand gently over hers, his own trembling ever so slightly. “okay… okay, we’re fine. we’re fine,” he mutters, voice quieter than usual, but his wide eyes betray him. every tiny noise from the nurse makes him flinch.

“satoru…” you giggle, brushing his hair back, “she’s supposed to be scared, not you.”

he swallows hard, jaw tight. “i know, i know… but… i can’t help it.” his fingers squeeze hers just enough to anchor her. “i worry about my angel. she’s only ten weeks!”

your daughter lets out a happy little squeal, gripping satoru’s hand back, eyes flicking to the nurse. she’s trying to be brave, but her little body stiffens when the syringe comes out.

and for a second everything is painfully still — then satoru practically combusts.

he jerks, voice too loud in the tiny room. “wait—wait—wait!!—” his hand clamps around hers like he’s trying to keep her from disappearing, eyes wide and ridiculous and very much human. “i mean—are you sure you know what you’re doing??”

”satoru!!” you snap quietly, glaring at him for his outburst, “you can’t just ask that! she’s a qualified nurse!”

“i know— i know! i’m just nervous!”

the nurse’s calm face doesn’t even crack; she has the practiced, gentle patience of someone who’s seen this exact performance a hundred times.

“alright, cutie. one, two…” she murmurs, and before you can say anything else she moves with quiet efficiency. the needle presses to the soft skin of your daughter’s thigh and there’s a tiny, surprised noise from her — half gasp, half hiccup — just enough to alert your melodramatic husband. satoru makes a sound that might be a cry, might be a laugh, maybe both. you can’t help it: you laugh, sharp and helpless, because he’s clutching the side of the table like it’s a cliff and not a vaccination chair.

“satoru, it’s just a vaccine,” you say, the words soft, trying to thread calm into the edges of the moment. “she doesn’t even know what’s going on.”

he looks at you like you’ve betrayed him and then like you’ve saved him, all in the span of one breath. “doesn’t matter,” he whispers, voice small. “it hurt her, so it hurt me.” his fingers tremble around hers; his thumb rubs tiny circles against her knuckles. you reach out and squeeze his shoulder and he drops his head against your arm, dramatic and ridiculous and utterly, achingly tender.

the nurse is already backing away, smile easy. “all done,” she says. “good job, sweetie.” and you’re unsure whether she was referring to your baby or your husband, who now seems to have lost all the colour in his face.

your daughter blinks, lip trembling, and then lets out a single, surprised giggle— a sound so tiny it feels like a miracle. satoru makes a noise that could be interpreted as a sob, presses his forehead to hers, and she buries her face in his shirt for half a second. you swear you feel the whole room light up.

“see?” you murmur, laughing through the relief. “she did it. and you didn’t have a heart attack.”

he sniffs, fingers carding through her hair, eyes glossy. “she was so brave,” he says, like it’s the most important headline in the world. and he means it. his chest puffs out with ridiculous, proud tenderness as if the tiny victory belongs to him alone. the sight is just so comical you have to bite your cheek to swallow back the laughs bubbling in your throat.

you kiss the top of your daughter’s head while satoru whispers confessions into her hair — apologies, promises, theatrical vows to guard her from every small thing in the world. she burbles, distracted by his voice, and reaches for his face with a tentative fist. his face melts when she grabs him, all tough-lines gone, replaced with that soft, absolute thing you’ve come to live for.

on the way out, satoru refuses to let you carry her, his hand permanently attached to the small of your daughter’s back. you nudge him and he grins sheepishly, still a little damp around the eyes. “ice cream?” he offers, like it’s a treaty. you laugh and nod. she squeals, a real, bright sound, and for a second you watch them — father and daughter — and think that maybe the world could be a little less sharp if you let moments like this sit in the middle of it.

he keeps humming under his breath the whole walk to the car, a soft, ridiculous melody that makes you think of lullabies and late-night confessions. you buckle her in and he leans in to press one last kiss to her forehead. “my brave girl,” he says, and it’s earnest and completely unperformative now.

you reach for his hand and find it warm and sticky with a smear of antiseptic from earlier. you lace your fingers with his anyways and don’t let go.

@whorishminds @besidesjustmyamour @throatgoatgeto @go-go-gadget-autism @thecrazyfangirlthings @grignardsreagent @strawberryshortcakkitty @sparklyeva

It wasn’t until someone asked you out loud that you started to think about it. It was an ordinary afternoon, a meaningless conversation over coffee, when one of your friends leaned in slightly toward you, with a shy smile, and asked the question almost in a whisper.

—Isn’t it… too much? Like being with someone like that. So tall, so strong, so rich. Don’t you realize that all the time?

You didn’t know what to say at first. Maybe because you had never put it that way before, or because to you, Satoru was simply Satoru. You didn’t reduce him to his height or his build. He was your home, your safe place, the laughter coming from the kitchen when something fell, the warmth surrounding you when he slipped into bed in the middle of the night. But still, that question echoed in your mind all day.

And it was only at night, when you saw him effortlessly bend down to pick up a spoon that had fallen under the sofa — the one you had unsuccessfully tried to reach — that you understood.

The size difference between you wasn’t noticeable all the time, but when it was, it was impossible to ignore. It appeared in the quiet, domestic moments, like when he hugged you from behind and his chin rested exactly on the crown of your head, fitting as if made for that. Or when he walked barefoot across the hallway at dawn and his steps made the floor slightly vibrate, while you were barely a whisper on the carpet.

It was in bed when he left before you and left behind a huge, warm space you couldn’t fill alone. It was in his hands, big enough to cover half your back when he caressed you with one palm. It was in cold nights when you woke restless and he simply pulled you against his chest with one arm, wrapping you completely, as if you were tiny.

No, you didn’t feel it all the time. But when you noticed it — when you remembered — something in your chest tightened with affection. As if, for some strange reason, you were falling in love again.

Sometimes you also noticed it in the smallest spaces.

Like in the kitchen, for example. Where you moved quickly between the shelves and pots, and he barely had to take a long step to get from one end to the other. Where you needed a chair to reach the highest part of the cupboard, and he simply stretched his arm with the same ease as you grabbed a cup from the first shelf. There was something funny and familiar about that. How he always appeared behind you, leaned over, grabbed what you couldn’t reach, and instead of handing it to you, he raised it above his head with a teasing smile.

—Is this what you were looking for? —he’d say, lifting it even higher.

You didn’t even answer. You just turned halfway around, ignored him with a fake dignity, and he laughed as he lowered the jar and placed it on the countertop, right where you knew he would. He always teased a little, yes. But he never made you wait more than a few seconds. It was actually his way of being there. Of making you smile.

On the couch, something similar happened. You fit perfectly between the cushions. He, on the other hand, had to curl his legs a bit so his feet wouldn’t stick out over the edge. Sometimes you leaned on him and your whole body rested on his chest, as if he were the sofa and you a thin blanket in winter. He liked having you like that. He liked wrapping you with both arms so you could barely move, as if he could protect you even from the drafts sneaking in through the window.

And you… you felt safe. So small, yes. But also so cared for.

On long days, when you came home tired, you noticed the difference in another way. He took your hand effortlessly, and his palm was so wide it almost covered yours completely. His fingers wrapped around yours like a silent promise. And when he hugged you, standing, you realized how much you had to tilt your head back just to look him in the eyes. He lowered his, of course. And kissed your forehead. Always your forehead.

—Too small for a kiss on the lips? —he joked sometimes, with that mischievous, soft smile of his.

But it was never really because of that. It was just that there, on that exact spot on your forehead, it seemed like he was placing something more intimate. Something that didn’t need words.

At airports, on trains, in any line, the difference was even more evident. He stood out above everyone. You found him just by turning your head, just by looking up a little. You always knew where he was. And no matter how crowded the places were, how chaotic the world was around you: Satoru was like a tower you could look at from any distance. Tall, strong, visible. The only fixed point when everything else moved.

And yet, it was in the quiet moments that you noticed it the most.

When he put his coat over you without you asking. When the sleeves completely covered your hands, and his scent stuck to your neck for hours. When you walked together in the rain and you ran two steps for every one of his, until he simply lifted you off the ground and carried you for a while, hugged to his side, as if you were a bag too pretty to get wet.

—You’re too small to walk alone in the rain —he’d say, almost seriously.

And you’d laugh, hiding against his chest, letting him keep walking while you, for once, didn’t make any effort.

Once you argued.

It wasn’t a big fight, not one of those that break things or raise voices. It was one of those that feel more like a silence that’s too long, like a misplaced word hanging between the two of you. You didn’t want to go to sleep angry, but you also didn’t know how to get close without seeming like you were giving in out of habit.

You went to bed first. You lay down on the farthest side, pretending everything was fine, even though your breath trembled a little. And then, without you hearing it, he came in. He walked barefoot, silently, and got behind you. He said nothing. He just slid an arm under your neck, pulled you toward him, and held you with that huge body that suddenly didn’t seem imposing… but warm. His open hand rested on your stomach. His chin on your head. His chest against your back.

He didn’t need to speak. He knew how to use his body as a language.

Just by being there, holding you like that, so easy, so firm, so whole… he was apologizing without a word. And you understood. Because when he surrounded you, when he used that size not to impose but to hold you, there was no room for resentment.

You also remembered how he waited for you.

Like that time at the hospital, after a mission that got more complicated than expected. They hadn’t let you call anyone, you didn’t know if he knew you were okay… but when you came out, a bit bruised, with poorly wrapped bandages and a tired body, you saw him. Standing, leaning against a pillar, hands in his pockets and an expression that showed nothing, except in his eyes. In those bright, clear eyes that looked for you the moment you crossed the door.

You walked to him without saying anything. And he didn’t speak either.

He just opened his arms.

And you went into them.

There, where you fit completely, where his hands covered your back effortlessly, where your face rested exactly at his chest’s height. Where you could hear his heart — slow, steady, present — and let the rest of the world disappear. You didn’t have to explain anything. Just squeeze a little tighter and breathe with him.

In moments like that, you understood what it meant to have someone like him. Not because of his size. Not because of his strength. But because of what he did with it.

Even in the silliest things, the difference was noticeable.

Like when you wore his clothes by accident. Or on purpose.

One of his T-shirts was a dress on you. You had to fold the sleeves twice just to see your hands. And he teased you. Walked around you like you were a curious work of art, leaning over every now and then to adjust the fabric on your shoulders.

—You could live in that —he’d say, laughing.

And you’d nod, because yes, in that moment, inside his clothes, with his scent, with his size, with his warmth… you felt like you could.

But of all the times, there was one that stuck with you in particular.

One morning when you woke up before him. That rarely happened. But that day, you watched him sleep. He was half-turned toward you, his face calm, lips parted. And for the first time in a long time, you saw him from the outside. Like you were a spectator.

He was big, yes. Tall. Broad. Strong.

But that wasn’t what surprised you.

What made you bite your lips was the tenderness. The contrast between his size and the way he held you even asleep. One hand on your hip, light but firm. His legs intertwined with yours. His forehead almost touching yours, as if even in dreams, he sought to be close.

And you thought:

What is it like to be with someone like that?

The question came back to you, but no longer as a foreign curiosity, but as something you yourself were asking.

What is it like to be with someone like that? So tall, so strong…

…and yet, still always make you feel like the biggest thing in his world.

It was in one of those stores without prices in plain sight.

The kind that smell like expensive perfume, with background music that never stops, not even when you walk in with eyes shining like a child in front of a toy store. The lights were dim, the shelves were miles apart from each other, and every garment seemed to have the texture of an expensive sigh. The kind of place where you feel like breathing costs more than the rent.

But you were happy.

It was one of those days when he insisted you go out together, "to treat yourself," he said. Although everyone knew — you included — that when Satoru Gojo said "treat yourself," he meant playing at spoiling you to absurd levels, as if it were his favorite sport. And in a way, it was.

The only thing he asked of you was one thing.

—Just promise me you won’t disappear between the shelves like always — he said, giving you that look, half joking, half resigned.

You smiled. Raised your hand as a sign of oath... and disappeared exactly two minutes later while he was on a call with Director Yaga, attracted by a dress hanging on a golden hanger. Literally, gold.

Satoru sighed so loudly that a sales assistant turned around to see if he was okay.

—Do you know where my wife is? — he asked her, his voice tired from already knowing the answer.

She smiled nervously.

—The one with the light blue purse? I saw her running toward the shoe section, sir.

And that’s when his search mission began. A three-floor store, six different rooms, a private fitting room, and you jumping from section to section like you were paid to be happy. He followed you at a steady pace, greeting the staff with that smile that looked confident but hid a slight desperation. He lost you. Found you. Lost you again.

Until you decided.

The next time you stopped to look at a huge mirror, surrounded by warm lights that returned your reflection as if you were a movie star, Satoru sighed. He did it so loudly that a customer turned to look at him curiously.

—Five more minutes — you murmured without looking at him.

—You lie with too much elegance — he replied, pulling out his phone and checking the time.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.

And when you lost sight of him between the fitting rooms and the racks of shiny dresses, Satoru simply turned around and left the store. He said nothing. He returned exactly seven minutes later, with a huge white heart-shaped helium balloon swaying at head height. The saleswoman looked at him in amazement. He just smiled as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

He found you in front of a rack of Italian blazers, happily ignoring the world. He approached silently, tied the balloon’s string to the ring on your purse with perfect precision, and patted your back affectionately.

—Done. Now yes — he said, like someone finishing an important ritual.

—What is this?

—My personal tracking system. If you get lost, I just have to follow the balloon.

—Did you leave the store just to buy this?

—There’s no price for my peace of mind.

—And where did you get a balloon in seven minutes?

—I’m Satoru Gojo.

—That doesn’t answer anything.

—But I said it with style.

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help smiling. You walked a few steps toward another section of the store and he followed you at a prudent distance, hands in pockets and a smile hanging from his lips. Several people glanced at you out of the corner of their eyes. Not because of the balloon, but because of you two. Together you were impossible to ignore.

—Did you see this mirror? — you said, admiring it closely — I think it costs more than the average car for any normal person.

Satoru crossed his arms and looked at you with a raised eyebrow.

—Love, you’re not a normal person. You’re my wife.

—That doesn’t change the price of the mirror.

—No, but it does change the rules about who can have it.

—Was that a polite way of saying you’re going to buy it for me?

—That was a polite way of saying you’re going to pretend to be surprised when the mirror arrives at home tomorrow.

You just laughed. That laugh he adored. The one that escaped you effortlessly, as if it was kept behind your ribs.

content: college!au, baby!yuji, reluctant babysitter gojo, mildy suggestive.

satoru gojo does not do children.

he doesn’t do curfews, or structure, or organized religion, or anything that smells remotely like responsibility. hell, he barely does laundry. and kids? absolutely fucking not. satoru gojo does not do kids.

he didn’t even do commitment until you hit him with your on-campus scooter and turned his life into a living, spinning headache. he still jokes that you concussed him into falling in love—says it with that smug little grin of his like it’s romantic. you always threaten to give him an actual concussion just to test the theory.

matter of fact, he only just started brushing his teeth twice a day, and that’s because you stuck a passive-aggressive post-it to the mirror that said your mouth is not immune to bacteria, genius.

(it worked. now he has three toothbrushes, all in different shades of blue, and he rotates between them depending on mood.)

so no. kids? absolutely not.

but you?

you, he can do. in more ways than one, if you ask him.

you and your scooter of mass destruction, the one that’s claimed four victims (including him—twice). you in his twin XL bed, somehow hogging the whole thing, drooling on his pillow like it’s your birthright. you in the dining hall with food on your chin, stealing fries off his plate like the concept of “mine” doesn’t apply to you. you in your family’s kitchen this spring break, standing barefoot in an oversized t-shirt while he leans against the fridge and tries not to panic over the toddler racing through the house with a bottle of maple syrup.

because that toddler? apparently that’s your brother.

“you have a brother?” he asked when you first brought it up, tucked into the dorm’s twin XL and very much little spoon, your arm slung over his middle like a seatbelt he didn’t know he needed.

“yeah, he’s an ass,” you’d muttered, half-asleep.

and satoru, being satoru—being an only child with a lifelong allergy to normal familial dynamics, just assumed that meant some sarcastic, acne-ridden teenager who stole your chargers and locked you out of the bathroom. he never thought to ask older or younger, never pictured crayons and juice boxes, either.

which is why he’s blinking now, horrified, as a half-dressed kindergartener barrels past him for the third time, giggling like he just did a line of powdered sugar and adrenaline.

“wait—that’s him?” satoru squints, standing stock-still in the middle of your kitchen with a measuring cup in one hand and a paw patrol sock in the other. “are you sure?”

“yes, satoru,” you mutter, reaching for the waffles before yuji can steal another one with his bare hands from the half-jammed toaster oven. “i was there when he was born.”

“but he’s like… tiny.” satoru’s voice drops an octave, like he’s trying to rationalize it out loud. his hands flap uselessly in front of him, palms up, like the sheer size of your little brother defies physics. “and small.”

you don’t even look up from where you’re stabbing at the toaster with a butter knife. “that’s usually how five-year-olds work, yeah.”

he stares at yuji, who is currently spinning in a circle with a measuring cup on his head like it’s a helmet. then back at you. then back at yuji.

“but you’re nineteen.”

“and?”

“that kid is, like, five.”

right on cue, yuji launches himself off the couch with a high-pitched yell, completely misses the pillow fort meant to break his fall, and slams face-first into the carpet with a thud. he pops up instantly, grinning, one sock hanging halfway off his foot, and screams something about being superman.

satoru—sweet, ridiculous, commitment-phobic satoru, feels a pit open in his stomach the size of a diaper genie. his jaw slackens. his whole body goes still, except for one hand that very slowly, very cautiously, sets down the measuring cup he’d been holding like it’s a live grenade.

this was supposed to be spring break. cuddles. midday naps. maybe some second base under your mom’s quilt if the stars aligned and the house was loud enough to muffle you guys.

not juice-fueled parkour and existential terror in the form of a kindergartener who may or may not have just bitten the actual couch cushion.

“well i just said that, didn’t i—” you start, but he cuts you off.

“so did your mom get bored and start over or what?”

you turn to him, blinking, toaster forgotten. “don’t be weird.”

but it was weird. because satoru had never seen you like this before—pulling tiny socks out of the laundry, wiping yogurt off a sticky chin, rolling your eyes when yuji screams “poopyhead!” at the TV but still sitting beside him with a juice box in hand. he’s never seen you settle so easily into this strange, chaotic rhythm. he’s never seen you responsible.

but he doesn’t say that out loud, of course. he just raises both hands in surrender, eyes wide, voice climbing.

“i’m not being weird, i’m just— i didn’t expect this. i thought he was gonna be, like, a middle school dickhead. not—” he gestures wildly toward yuji, who is now crawling under the coffee table growling like a feral dog. “—not this”

you sigh, finally managing to get the toast out. “he’s five, satoru. not possessed.”

“not yet.”

“you’re such a baby.”

“he’s the baby!” satoru hisses, pointing in horror as yuji starts licking the TV screen for no reason at all. “why is he doing that?! is this a test? did your parents leave me here as a test?”

you snort, smug. “well, you’re doing great, babe.”

satoru was, in fact, not doing great.

because his first full day alone with you and yuji starts rough.

first of all, yuji refuses to sleep in his own bed. flat-out refuses. insists, with the righteous indignation of a boy who owns two pairs of dinosaur pajamas and nothing to lose, that he has to sleep in the middle of you and satoru or he’ll have “bad dreams and turn into soup.” whatever that means.

so satoru, who just wanted to cuddle his girlfriend and maybe sneak in a tit grab—gets kicked in the ribs, the nose, and the thigh all in the span of twenty minutes. by 1:30 a.m., he’s dragging himself into yuji’s racecar bed with a blanket that smells like apple juice and despair, his long limbs hanging off the sides like a dying spider. he stares at the glow-in-the-dark ceiling stars and whispers this is not what i meant by playing house.

and it only gets worse from there.

because yuji? yuji is not just five. he’s peak five, and highly competitive in both physical and psychological warfare.

satoru finds himself arguing with him about legos, full-volume, while yuji is completely naked and holding a butter knife like he’s about to challenge him to a duel. satoru tries to take it away. yuji growls.

“you are not my dad!” yuji shouts.

“thank god for that,” satoru mutters.

and then there’s the incident.

it starts with yuji standing in the hallway post-bath, wrapped in a towel, eyes wide and innocent.

“i forgot how to wipe,” he says.

satoru freezes mid-sip of gatorade. “come again?”

“my butt,” yuji says solemnly. “it needs help.”

he debates. argues. begs. but twenty minutes later, he’s crouched in the bathroom, dead-eyed and defeated. it’s only after the ordeal—after the trauma, that you return from your errand run and casually mention that yuji’s been potty trained since he was three.

satoru nearly weeps.

but the final straw is coco melon.

you have an internship meeting. one hour. just one. and satoru, with the exhausted desperation of a man clinging to the last thread of his sanity, turns on coco melon to keep the beast distracted.

ten seconds in, he regrets it.

because the colors are too bright, the singing is too loud, and yuji? yuji’s vibrating with energy, bouncing on the couch like he’s mainlined fun dip. he’s not singing—he’s screaming, every syllable sharp enough to pierce the veil between worlds. satoru feels his soul leave his body somewhere between “baby shark” and “clean up song.”

he sits on the floor, head in hands, trying to breathe. somewhere behind him, yuji is doing push-ups and chanting “fire truck” like a war hymn.

satoru gojo does not do children.

but he does love you.

and as he drags his heavy, noodle limbs upstairs that night and flops onto your bed face-first, he grumbles into the pillow, “if i ever agree to a second kid, drown me.”

you kiss the back of his head and murmur, “so you’re saying there’s gonna be a first?”

he groans. “don’t twist my words. i’m too young to be a dad. i haven’t even hit my peak yet.”

you grin.

satoru falls asleep with your hand in his hair and the quiet sound of coco melon still playing in his nightmares—until yuji comes barreling out of his room and drops the people’s elbow onto satoru’s spine because the lights flickered once and he got scared, and suddenly, satoru’s back in the racecar bed, limbs cramped and soul rapidly exiting his body.

but then, somehow, it softens.

you nap on the couch, and he watches over both of you with one leg bouncing nervously—because what if yuji dies under his watch? he doesn’t. he just puts too much random shit in his mouth and eventually curls up under satoru’s oversized hoodie like a sleepy dog, then asks if satoru’s marrying his sister (satoru says you’re already married).

you cook dinner. satoru’s eats half of it before remembering to serve yuji his plate. yuji doesn’t care. he just shovels mac and cheese into his mouth and beams up at you both like he’s living in a disney channel promo.

“this is nice,” yuji says, eyes wide and cheeks stuffed, “i like you guys.”

and something about that sticks in satoru’s chest.

because your hand is on yuji’s shoulder, steady and patient, and you’re laughing softly when he gets cheese on his chin, and you’ve got a hole in your sock and a tiny line between your eyebrows that only shows when you’re tired, and satoru thinks—fuck. this is the most difficult week of my life, but this? this is too easy.

because satoru adores you, and he never thought he’d end up with someone like you. someone who laughs with their whole body, someone who always answers the phone, someone who’d let a boy like him into the soft, sacred parts of her life. like her family. like her home. like her future.

and later, when yuji’s finally asleep in his own room, one sock on, one sock off, upside down in the bed like a broken doll—satoru presses himself into your side and buries his face in your hoodie, arms wrapped around your waist like he’s trying to glue himself to you.

he kisses your cheek. “you’d be a good mom,” he murmurs, voice so quiet it startles even him.

you blink, caught off guard.

he doesn’t meet your gaze. just keeps twirling a loose thread on your sleeve like it’s suddenly fascinating, and adds, “not that i’m saying we should have a kid. obviously not.”

you’re still staring.

“but,” he goes on, a little more rushed now, “if we ever did… accidentally or not—i’d want it to be with you.”

silence.

then: “satoru?”

“hm?”

“why are your hands in my pants?”

he exhales, dramatic and exhausted. “look, man, i just wanna touch my girlfriend once this week without getting body-slammed by a five-year-old in footie pajamas.”

you snort, loud and ungraceful. “romantic.”

“i’m fighting for my damn life out here, babe.”

and maybe he doesn’t do kids—but he does do you. he watches you carry that kid on your hip like it’s nothing, humming some dumb song while you pour cereal into two mismatched bowls. and for the first time since met yuji, something tugs at the back of his chest that isn’t fear or panic or apathy. something warm. something that looks a little like future.

he imagines you years from now, still humming, still barefoot in the kitchen, but in a place you both picked out. with sunlight and crumbs and someone’s child screaming in the background, and you yelling “satoru, get your kid!” while he pretends to be asleep on the couch. and maybe he’d grumble and whine and roll off the cushions with all the grace of a man half-hungover, but he’d do it. for you, he’d do it.

(he’s already doing it now, isn’t he?)

and later that week, when yuji’s finally knocked out and you two actually have enough energy to not be confined to your childhood bedroom for once, you’re in the kitchen making popcorn, humming some tune under your breath. satoru’s sitting on the floor next to the island, head leaned back against a cabinet, knees drawn up like he’s been through war.

“you good?” you ask, furrowing your brows at him, hands still busy tearing open a packet of instant butter sauce.

he nods slowly, but he’s staring at you. at your pajama shorts and your oversized shirt and the messy bun held together with two pens. at the sharpied mustache still half-faded on your upper lip from earlier, when yuji decided you had to be “sheriff.” and satoru—god, satoru thinks he’s a lot in love.

“this domestic shit is gonna be the death of me,” he mutters, eyes hazy with something that looks an awful lot like devotion. “i think i really do wanna get you pregnant.”

you choke on your spit. violently.

he grins, completely unbothered. “not, like, tonight or whatever. unless you’re down. i mean—look at you. you’d be hot pregnant.”

“satoru,” you gasp, horrified.

“what?” he shrugs, scooting over to rest his chin on your hip. “i’m just saying, i’m mentally prepared to ruin my whole life for you.”

you stare at him, stunned, popcorn long forgotten. and satoru, sweet, ridiculous, commitment-phobic satoru, looks up at you like he’s already made peace with it. like he’s already living it. like it’s not ruin at all.

and later, when you’re curled up together on the couch, popcorn between you, yuji snoring in the other room, you think—maybe he doesn’t do kids. maybe he doesn’t do quiet, or rules, or five-year-olds wielding butter knives.

but he does you.

Me: