Violet

"You left it in the fruit bowl."

Satoru wandered into the kitchen.

Sure enough, the black mouthguard sat beside the bananas. "...Huh."

Nanami pointed at the now folded laundry. "I washed it."

"My angel."

"My husband."

"My beautiful husband."

"You've said 'husband' three times in thirty seconds."

"I like saying it."

"I know."

Satoru abandoned the mouthguard entirely.

He crossed the apartment in long strides before collapsing sideways onto the couch, folding six-foot-three worth of professional fighter into Nanami’s lap as if gravity simply worked differently for him.

His hair still smelled faintly of shampoo.

Nanami sighed with all the resignation of someone who had accepted years ago that personal space had become a historical concept. "You have training."

"I do."

"You should leave."

"I should."

Neither of them moved.

Instead, Satoru tucked his face into Nanami's stomach. "I love you."

"I know."

"You didn't say it back."

Nanami smiled before setting another folded shirt onto the pile. "I was getting there."

"I almost died waiting."

"You've survived title fights."

"Those were easier."

Nanami finally leaned down, brushing Satoru's hair away from his forehead.

"I love you too."

Satoru actually melted. Every muscle in his shoulders relaxed until he looked less like the heavyweight champion of the world and more like an overgrown white cat discovering blankets for the first time.

"My daily vitamin."

The gym had stopped pretending not to know Nanami months into their marriage.

At first everyone had tried very hard to act professional.

"Good morning, Nanami-san."

"Coffee?"

"Can we get you anything?"

Now—

"KEN!"

Half the room looked up.

Nanami had barely stepped inside before Satoru jogged across the mats.

His coach yelled after him. "GOJO! WE'RE IN THE MIDDLE OF DRILLS!"

"I know!"

"WHERE ARE YOU GOING?"

"My husband's here."

"..."

"..."

"...Carry on."

Nobody argued anymore.

Satoru reached Nanami in seconds, immediately wrapping thick arms around his waist. "You came."

"You forgot your lunch." Nanami held up an insulated bag. "And your wallet."

"..."

"And your phone."

"..."

"And your belt."

"..."

Satoru looked genuinely impressed. "Honey."

"Yes?"

"How did I leave the belt?"

"You were looking at me."

"Oh."

"That's usually the answer."

Satoru accepted this with sincerity. "Fair."

He kissed Nanami's forehead. Then both cheeks. Then the tip of his nose. Then his mouth. Then once more because he hadn't finished.

Several heavy bags swung with random punches.

Someone coughed.

The strength coach checked his watch.

One of the younger fighters whispered, "Is this normal?"

His sparring partner answered without looking up. "This is restrained."

---

Fight nights were worse or…better. Depending on who you asked.

Nanami always sat in the same seat—front row, fur jacket, crossed legs, hands folded neatly in his lap.

The cameras adored him, and the commentators had started calling him “Gojo's lucky charm.”

They were wrong.

He was the person Satoru looked for before the referee touched gloves.

As he walked toward the cage, his eyes swept across thousands of screaming people—sponsors, photographers, celebrities, security, and lights.

Then his cerulean eyes landed on warm whiskey ones, blond hair, and a small smile.

Nanami lifted both thumbs.

Gojo grinned.

The tension vanished from his shoulders instantly.

The referee hadn't even started introductions yet.

Across the aisle, another fighter laughed. "Man."

"What?" His coach asked.

"I think he'd fight God if that blond guy asked."

"..."

"He probably would."

---

Interviews never improved.

"Gojo! Incredible knockout tonight! Thoughts?"

"My husband looked really pretty."

"...About the fight?"

"I promised Ken we'd get Shirayaki after."

"...Your opponent?"

"He hit weak."

"...Any message for your fans?"

Satoru pointed directly into the camera. "My husband's the cutest person alive."

Backstage, Nanami buried his face into both hands.

The promoter groaned.

The social media manager started typing before the interview had even ended.

THE RITUAL CONTINUES AS GOJO CALLS HUSBAND CUTEST PERSON ALIVE AFTER TITLE DEFENSE.

---

There was one person Satoru became frightening around. People assumed opponents, trash-talkers, or internet trolls.

No.

"The scissors are awfully close."

The stylist looked up. "...Sir."

"One wrong snip."

"Sir."

"I notice everything."

Nanami reached over from the waiting chair where he was flipping through a magazine. "Satoru."

Immediately—"Yes, baby?"

"You're making him nervous."

"..."

"...Sorry."

He wasn't.

Ten minutes later—"He took too much off."

Nanami looked in the mirror. "They trimmed half a centimeter."

"Exactly."

"I asked them to."

"..."

"..."

"...Well if you wanted it—"

"I did."

"...Then it's perfect."

---

After lunch one day Nanami wandered into Satoru's office at home.

The walls were covered in championship belts, signed gloves, magazine covers, and photos with athletes, promoters, presidents, and movie stars.

Then, in the middle of everything was a tiny Polaroid of Nanami wearing pajamas, asleep, and wrapped around a stuffed polar bear.

He stared. "...Satoru."

"What?"

"Why is this framed?"

Satoru didn't even look up from taping his wrists. "I like it."

"I am drooling and my hair looks terrible."

"I know."

Nanami stared at the picture again.

Then at the championship belts surrounding it. "...You put me in the middle."

"Yeah."

"...Why?"

Satoru looked genuinely confused. "'Cause you're the most important one."

He said it the way someone might explain why the sky was blue, simple, obvious, and already true.

Nanami crossed the room before Satoru had finished wrapping his hands and cupped Satoru's face with both palms.

"You know," he murmured, smiling so softly it almost disappeared, "I used to think I was your biggest fan."

"You still are."

"No."

He kissed him once. "I think you're mine."

For perhaps the only time that year, Satoru Gojo forgot how to speak.

When his coach opened the office door five minutes later, the heavyweight champion was sitting on the floor with his forehead pressed against Nanami's stomach while Nanami carded slow fingers through his hair.

"Champ."

No response.

"Champ?"

Still nothing.

Nanami looked up with a tiny apologetic smile.

"I may have complimented him."

The coach sighed. "Again?"

"I'm afraid so."

"...How long?"

Satoru finally answered, voice muffled against Nanami's sweater. “Give me another minute."

Nanami scratched lightly behind his ear. "Take two."

"You're the best, Ken."

Nanami laughed under his breath.

---

Later that night, Nanami found the birthday cake in the fridge with KENTO written in blue icing and three strawberries missing from the corner.

“Satoru?”

From the bedroom, a loud guilty voice followed. “I was checking if they were sweet enough for you.”

“You ate my cake.”

“I tested your cake.”

Nanami stood in the kitchen doorway with the plate in one hand.

Satoru was already sitting upright in bed, hair pointing in several directions, expression elated in a way that would have been embarrassing on any other man.

“Come here,” Nanami said.

The heavyweight champion of the world crossed the room barefoot, kissed icing from Nanami’s thumb, and looked stupidly pleased when Nanami let him have the bite.

“Can I eat your cake for real now?”

NSFW

Nanami stared at him over the plate. “Satoru.”

“That sounded judgmental.”

“Maybe it was.”

Satoru grinned stupidly and came closer. He was tall enough that Nanami had to tilt his chin and broad enough to eclipse the dresser behind him. He still smelled faintly of cake and their shampoo, hair ruined from bed. His hands settled on Nanami’s waist with the care of a man who had won matches in under a minute and still took ten years deciding where to kiss his husband first.

Nanami lifted the plate between them. “Have a piece.”

“I want the icing.”

“Use a fork.”

Nanami had gotten icing on his thumb and was bringing it to his mouth when Satoru caught his wrist, sucked the thumb between his lips, and looked up at him from under messy white lashes.

Nanami’s mouth fell open on a breath, his ears going red before he could look away.

Satoru grinned, took the plate from him, and set it on the dresser without looking away. “I have plans for the icing.”

That was how Nanami ended up spread across their bed with his tangerine shirt pushed to his ribs, shorts thrown god knows where, blond hair crushed into the pillows, and the blue-feathered robe he had worn earlier sliding off one shoulder into an expensive heap.

Satoru dragged icing over his sternum with his thumb, then lower down to his Adonis belt, so slow it made Nanami’s stomach tighten before before skin even met skin.

“Cold?” Satoru asked.

Nanami looked down at him, breath already hitching at intervals. "N-no."

Satoru bent and licked the first streak clean with his tongue.

Nanami’s fingers sank into his hair immediately. He tugged, not to stop him but to guide him where to stay. Satoru followed with tongue, teeth, and mouth dragging over sugar and skin, every kiss messier than the last until Nanami’s chest lifted for him without being asked.

“Look at you,” Satoru murmured against his pelvis. “Birthday boy in feathers, letting me eat cake off him.”

Nanami’s breathing deepened when his thigh brushed the hard line of Satoru through his sweats. “You’re hard enough to bruise me through your pants.”

“I know. It’s serious.”

Nanami’s breath hitched when Satoru licked icing off Nanami’s tip, lips swallowing around it.

"God, you’re drooling so much, Satoru.”

Satoru let go with a wet pop, spit connecting his lips to Nanami’s tip. “Pretty blondie,” he murmured against him. “Pretty husband. Pretty everything.”

Nanami laughed, then sucked in air when Satoru shifted, grabbed his hips, and dragged him lower on the mattress to bite gently at his hip, then slapped it and watched the plump skin bounce back. Then Satoru kissed down with greedy devotion, his body broad enough to cage Nanami in without trying. Nanami was braced on one elbow at first, chin lifted, mouth loud because Satoru liked it when he was.

Satoru got between his thighs, palms spreading his hips open with the same careful strength he used wrapping his hands before a fight.

Nanami’s thighs twitched under Satoru’s arms.

Satoru put icing on his tongue first, then licked over Nanami’s fluttering hole, slow enough to feel him clench before he kissed deeper, humming from the taste. The sound was so heavy it sent shivers up Nanami’s neck, making him redder when Satoru’s tongue finally prodded in.

The push of Satoru’s tongue had Nanami’s hips jerking, one knee digging into the bed, his voice snapping loose in a way Satoru felt in his own cock.

“Fuck,” Satoru said, lifting his mouth just enough to talk against him. “That sound. Give me more of that.”

The second Satoru’s tongue pushed in deeper through the tight ring of muscle again, Nanami’s elbow slipped, making his head bury into the pillows. His wet, hot tongue flicked against Nanami’s spot with the muscle memory of years together, and the next thing Nanami said came out broken, more breath than word, and Satoru made another, louder, pleased sound against him.

“There,” Satoru said, low and warm, lifting his mouth just enough to speak before biting Kento’s plump ass cheeks, still holding him open with both his thumbs. “That’s what I wanted. Let me have you, Ken.”

Nanami’s hand shook in his hair. “You’re filthy.”

“Don’t lie. It’s the best day of your life.”

He ate him out with both hands holding him open, mouth wet, greedy, and shameless. Nanami kept trying to turn and watch but kept failing. His head dropped back, knuckles white on the pillow. Every time Satoru hummed into him, Nanami’s body answered before his mouth could, thighs tightening, stomach fluttering, and breath breaking into Satoru’s name.

Satoru freed his mouth and turned Nanami over by his hips.

Nanami dragged him down by the back of his neck and kissed him hard.

By the time Satoru reached for the lube, Nanami was flushed from chest to ears, t-shirt sweaty, robe gone to the floor, one hand loosely covering his own mouth.

Satoru caught that wrist and kissed the ring. “Don’t hide from me.”

Nanami glanced at him, unfocused already.

Satoru slicked his fingers and pressed one in.

Nanami’s reply turned into a groan when Satoru curled his finger.

Satoru watched his face as he worked in the second finger, then the third, jaw tight, breathing worse every time Nanami opened for him. He was built for damage in every room except this one; here he was shaking because Nanami’s knees had parted for him and Nanami’s voice had gone soft with need.

“Tell me,” Satoru said, stroking him open. “Say it clearly while you still can.”

Nanami dragged him down by the neck. “Fuck me.”

Satoru looked grateful before he leaned down to kiss him hard, then lined up.

The head of his cock pressed in thick and heavy and already wet from precum and lube. Nanami grabbed his shoulders, mouth falling open before Satoru had even given him an inch.

“Too big,” Nanami choked out.

Satoru’s whole body answered before his mind, shoulders locking, hips stuttering once, control catching by a thread. Months of training had carved him down to discipline and hunger, early mornings in the cage, taped knuckles, ice baths, a title belt he’d brought home still undefeated. For the last few weeks, he'd spent practically every minute training or strategizing.

But none of it had prepared him for Nanami under him again, smaller by just enough to make Satoru feel obscene with it, broad where he liked him broad, and firm where Satoru wanted to bite, still taking him like his body remembered Satoru's, like coming home.

“I know, baby.” Satoru’s voice came out wrecked, almost laughing to hide the pleading under it. He pressed his forehead to Nanami’s and kissed damp skin on his nose, one hand rubbing circles into his lover's hips to help calm him. “I know. Breathe. I’ve got you. I won’t hurt you. Breathe for me. Fuck, Kento, breathe for me.”

Nanami tried. Satoru felt the attempt through his sternum below his own chest, the shiver, and the tight little pull of the ring of muscle around the head of his cock. God, Nanami’s ass was so honest, Satoru thought but didn't dare say out loud. Even when Nanami’s mouth argued, even when he made that low, annoyed sound like Satoru had offended him by being built this way, his hole kept fluttering around him, slick and hot, trying to push him out and drag him deeper in the same breath.

Satoru bit down on a groan. “Fuck, Kento. You feel that?” His thumb rubbed slow at the place Nanami’s hip flexed under his grip, careful despite the way his thighs shook with the need to stop being careful and bury himself until Nanami forgot the bed, the cake, the whole dam room. “Missed me so bad your body’s losing its mind.”

Nanami made an offended, strangled noise into Satoru’s neck and bit down hard.

“Yeah,” Satoru groaned from the pleasure and pain, hips bucking suddenly to press another inch in and going still the second Nanami tensed again. His mouth kept running anyway. “There you are. There’s my Ken-chan. Good for me, baby, so good. Still biting me while you take it. Fuck, Kento, you’re so tight I’m gonna lose my mind. Gonna come so deep for you. Bury my seed in you. Birthday present, yeah? You can complain after.” 

Nanami’s mouth fell open on the push, his hands locking around Satoru’s shoulders, nails digging into muscle. Satoru pushed deeper, and the sounds Nanami made turned shakier, forced out of him before he could swallow them. His eyes went glassy, thighs shaking around Satoru’s waist, tight at first, then worse when Satoru’s cock dragged over that familiar spot inside him, the one his body knew too well and had gone too long without.

“Kento,” Satoru breathed, wrecked with it. “Fuck, listen to you.”

Nanami went bright red from his chest to his ears and slapped a hand over Satoru’s mouth.

Satoru stopped, buried halfway.

For one second, he only stared down at him, breathing hard through his nose, eyes blown wide above Nanami’s palm. Then he kissed the inside of Nanami’s wrist, slow and obnoxiously tender, until Nanami’s hand loosened by itself.

Nanami pulled it away like he was offended his own body had betrayed him.

Satoru kissed his cheek, then his jaw, then the damp corner of his mouth. “Good. There you go. Take me.”

Nanami nodded against him, pretty and so dazed that Satoru almost lost his mind.

Satoru sank in the rest of the way.

For a second, neither of them moved. Satoru’s arms trembled beside Nanami’s head. Nanami’s hands slid down Satoru’s back, his thoughts thinning around the heat of him, around the familiar stretch his body had missed, around Satoru inside him.

Then Nanami whispered, “Move.”

Satoru pulled out until only the tip stayed inside him, then drove back in.

Nanami’s back arched off the bed.

Satoru did it again, harder, heavier, each stroke knocking another piece of speech out of him. Nanami stopped forming sentences. All he could give was Satoru’s name, then please, then a broken sound that made Satoru grin into his neck.

“God, Ken-chan, you have any idea,” Satoru panted, fucking him deep. “What you look like right now?”

The bed started giving them away, the frame knocking softly at first, then louder as Satoru lost the last of his patience.

“My husband,” Satoru groaned, almost laughing from how gone he sounded. “My spoiled Ken-chan. Birthday cake on your mouth, my ring on your hand, and still acting like you’re above begging.”

Nanami reached for him blindly.

Satoru caught his hand, kissed the ring again, and pinned it to the mattress while he fucked him harder.

---

Nanami complained after.

He did it with his face pressed into Satoru’s neck, one leg hooked around his waist.

Satoru listened very seriously, nodding into his hair and massaging Nanami’s aching hips. “Mhm. Awful. Terrible husband. Should I apologize with more cake or my mouth?”

Nanami went still.

Satoru grinned. “That’s what I thought.”

A/N: Thank you for reading!! I hope this felt like a tiny birthday treat for Nanami. Tell me which part made you smile; I’m nosy and I want to know. I’m especially wondering whether gym husband Satoru or interview husband Satoru wins.

Masterlist

Line dividers from @pixopix and engagement banners are mine.

"You left it in the fruit bowl."

Satoru wandered into the kitchen.

Sure enough, the black mouthguard sat beside the bananas. "...Huh."

Nanami pointed at the now folded laundry. "I washed it."

"My angel."

"My husband."

"My beautiful husband."

"You've said 'husband' three times in thirty seconds."

"I like saying it."

"I know."

Satoru abandoned the mouthguard entirely.

He crossed the apartment in long strides before collapsing sideways onto the couch, folding six-foot-three worth of professional fighter into Nanami’s lap as if gravity simply worked differently for him.

His hair still smelled faintly of shampoo.

Nanami sighed with all the resignation of someone who had accepted years ago that personal space had become a historical concept. "You have training."

"I do."

"You should leave."

"I should."

Neither of them moved.

Instead, Satoru tucked his face into Nanami's stomach. "I love you."

"I know."

"You didn't say it back."

Nanami smiled before setting another folded shirt onto the pile. "I was getting there."

"I almost died waiting."

"You've survived title fights."

"Those were easier."

Nanami finally leaned down, brushing Satoru's hair away from his forehead.

"I love you too."

Satoru actually melted. Every muscle in his shoulders relaxed until he looked less like the heavyweight champion of the world and more like an overgrown white cat discovering blankets for the first time.

"My daily vitamin."

The gym had stopped pretending not to know Nanami months into their marriage.

At first everyone had tried very hard to act professional.

"Good morning, Nanami-san."

"Coffee?"

"Can we get you anything?"

Now—

"KEN!"

Half the room looked up.

Nanami had barely stepped inside before Satoru jogged across the mats.

His coach yelled after him. "GOJO! WE'RE IN THE MIDDLE OF DRILLS!"

"I know!"

"WHERE ARE YOU GOING?"

"My husband's here."

"..."

"..."

"...Carry on."

Nobody argued anymore.

Satoru reached Nanami in seconds, immediately wrapping thick arms around his waist. "You came."

"You forgot your lunch." Nanami held up an insulated bag. "And your wallet."

"..."

"And your phone."

"..."

"And your belt."

"..."

Satoru looked genuinely impressed. "Honey."

"Yes?"

"How did I leave the belt?"

"You were looking at me."

"Oh."

"That's usually the answer."

Satoru accepted this with sincerity. "Fair."

He kissed Nanami's forehead. Then both cheeks. Then the tip of his nose. Then his mouth. Then once more because he hadn't finished.

Several heavy bags swung with random punches.

Someone coughed.

The strength coach checked his watch.

One of the younger fighters whispered, "Is this normal?"

His sparring partner answered without looking up. "This is restrained."

---

Fight nights were worse or…better. Depending on who you asked.

Nanami always sat in the same seat—front row, fur jacket, crossed legs, hands folded neatly in his lap.

The cameras adored him, and the commentators had started calling him “Gojo's lucky charm.”

They were wrong.

He was the person Satoru looked for before the referee touched gloves.

As he walked toward the cage, his eyes swept across thousands of screaming people—sponsors, photographers, celebrities, security, and lights.

Then his cerulean eyes landed on warm whiskey ones, blond hair, and a small smile.

Nanami lifted both thumbs.

Gojo grinned.

The tension vanished from his shoulders instantly.

The referee hadn't even started introductions yet.

Across the aisle, another fighter laughed. "Man."

"What?" His coach asked.

"I think he'd fight God if that blond guy asked."

"..."

"He probably would."

---

Interviews never improved.

"Gojo! Incredible knockout tonight! Thoughts?"

"My husband looked really pretty."

"...About the fight?"

"I promised Ken we'd get Shirayaki after."

"...Your opponent?"

"He hit weak."

"...Any message for your fans?"

Satoru pointed directly into the camera. "My husband's the cutest person alive."

Backstage, Nanami buried his face into both hands.

The promoter groaned.

The social media manager started typing before the interview had even ended.

THE RITUAL CONTINUES AS GOJO CALLS HUSBAND CUTEST PERSON ALIVE AFTER TITLE DEFENSE.

---

There was one person Satoru became frightening around. People assumed opponents, trash-talkers, or internet trolls.

No.

"The scissors are awfully close."

The stylist looked up. "...Sir."

"One wrong snip."

"Sir."

"I notice everything."

Nanami reached over from the waiting chair where he was flipping through a magazine. "Satoru."

Immediately—"Yes, baby?"

"You're making him nervous."

"..."

"...Sorry."

He wasn't.

Ten minutes later—"He took too much off."

Nanami looked in the mirror. "They trimmed half a centimeter."

"Exactly."

"I asked them to."

"..."

"..."

"...Well if you wanted it—"

"I did."

"...Then it's perfect."

---

After lunch one day Nanami wandered into Satoru's office at home.

The walls were covered in championship belts, signed gloves, magazine covers, and photos with athletes, promoters, presidents, and movie stars.

Then, in the middle of everything was a tiny Polaroid of Nanami wearing pajamas, asleep, and wrapped around a stuffed polar bear.

He stared. "...Satoru."

"What?"

"Why is this framed?"

Satoru didn't even look up from taping his wrists. "I like it."

"I am drooling and my hair looks terrible."

"I know."

Nanami stared at the picture again.

Then at the championship belts surrounding it. "...You put me in the middle."

"Yeah."

"...Why?"

Satoru looked genuinely confused. "'Cause you're the most important one."

He said it the way someone might explain why the sky was blue, simple, obvious, and already true.

Nanami crossed the room before Satoru had finished wrapping his hands and cupped Satoru's face with both palms.

"You know," he murmured, smiling so softly it almost disappeared, "I used to think I was your biggest fan."

"You still are."

"No."

He kissed him once. "I think you're mine."

For perhaps the only time that year, Satoru Gojo forgot how to speak.

When his coach opened the office door five minutes later, the heavyweight champion was sitting on the floor with his forehead pressed against Nanami's stomach while Nanami carded slow fingers through his hair.

"Champ."

No response.

"Champ?"

Still nothing.

Nanami looked up with a tiny apologetic smile.

"I may have complimented him."

The coach sighed. "Again?"

"I'm afraid so."

"...How long?"

Satoru finally answered, voice muffled against Nanami's sweater. “Give me another minute."

Nanami scratched lightly behind his ear. "Take two."

"You're the best, Ken."

Nanami laughed under his breath.

---

Later that night, Nanami found the birthday cake in the fridge with KENTO written in blue icing and three strawberries missing from the corner.

“Satoru?”

From the bedroom, a loud guilty voice followed. “I was checking if they were sweet enough for you.”

“You ate my cake.”

“I tested your cake.”

Nanami stood in the kitchen doorway with the plate in one hand.

Satoru was already sitting upright in bed, hair pointing in several directions, expression elated in a way that would have been embarrassing on any other man.

“Come here,” Nanami said.

The heavyweight champion of the world crossed the room barefoot, kissed icing from Nanami’s thumb, and looked stupidly pleased when Nanami let him have the bite.

“Can I eat your cake for real now?”

NSFW

Nanami stared at him over the plate. “Satoru.”

“That sounded judgmental.”

“Maybe it was.”

Satoru grinned stupidly and came closer. He was tall enough that Nanami had to tilt his chin and broad enough to eclipse the dresser behind him. He still smelled faintly of cake and their shampoo, hair ruined from bed. His hands settled on Nanami’s waist with the care of a man who had won matches in under a minute and still took ten years deciding where to kiss his husband first.

Nanami lifted the plate between them. “Have a piece.”

“I want the icing.”

“Use a fork.”

Nanami had gotten icing on his thumb and was bringing it to his mouth when Satoru caught his wrist, sucked the thumb between his lips, and looked up at him from under messy white lashes.

Nanami’s mouth fell open on a breath, his ears going red before he could look away.

Satoru grinned, took the plate from him, and set it on the dresser without looking away. “I have plans for the icing.”

That was how Nanami ended up spread across their bed with his tangerine shirt pushed to his ribs, shorts thrown god knows where, blond hair crushed into the pillows, and the blue-feathered robe he had worn earlier sliding off one shoulder into an expensive heap.

Satoru dragged icing over his sternum with his thumb, then lower down to his Adonis belt, so slow it made Nanami’s stomach tighten before before skin even met skin.

“Cold?” Satoru asked.

Nanami looked down at him, breath already hitching at intervals. "N-no."

Satoru bent and licked the first streak clean with his tongue.

Nanami’s fingers sank into his hair immediately. He tugged, not to stop him but to guide him where to stay. Satoru followed with tongue, teeth, and mouth dragging over sugar and skin, every kiss messier than the last until Nanami’s chest lifted for him without being asked.

“Look at you,” Satoru murmured against his pelvis. “Birthday boy in feathers, letting me eat cake off him.”

Nanami’s breathing deepened when his thigh brushed the hard line of Satoru through his sweats. “You’re hard enough to bruise me through your pants.”

“I know. It’s serious.”

Nanami’s breath hitched when Satoru licked icing off Nanami’s tip, lips swallowing around it.

"God, you’re drooling so much, Satoru.”

Satoru let go with a wet pop, spit connecting his lips to Nanami’s tip. “Pretty blondie,” he murmured against him. “Pretty husband. Pretty everything.”

Nanami laughed, then sucked in air when Satoru shifted, grabbed his hips, and dragged him lower on the mattress to bite gently at his hip, then slapped it and watched the plump skin bounce back. Then Satoru kissed down with greedy devotion, his body broad enough to cage Nanami in without trying. Nanami was braced on one elbow at first, chin lifted, mouth loud because Satoru liked it when he was.

Satoru got between his thighs, palms spreading his hips open with the same careful strength he used wrapping his hands before a fight.

Nanami’s thighs twitched under Satoru’s arms.

Satoru put icing on his tongue first, then licked over Nanami’s fluttering hole, slow enough to feel him clench before he kissed deeper, humming from the taste. The sound was so heavy it sent shivers up Nanami’s neck, making him redder when Satoru’s tongue finally prodded in.

The push of Satoru’s tongue had Nanami’s hips jerking, one knee digging into the bed, his voice snapping loose in a way Satoru felt in his own cock.

“Fuck,” Satoru said, lifting his mouth just enough to talk against him. “That sound. Give me more of that.”

The second Satoru’s tongue pushed in deeper through the tight ring of muscle again, Nanami’s elbow slipped, making his head bury into the pillows. His wet, hot tongue flicked against Nanami’s spot with the muscle memory of years together, and the next thing Nanami said came out broken, more breath than word, and Satoru made another, louder, pleased sound against him.

“There,” Satoru said, low and warm, lifting his mouth just enough to speak before biting Kento’s plump ass cheeks, still holding him open with both his thumbs. “That’s what I wanted. Let me have you, Ken.”

Nanami’s hand shook in his hair. “You’re filthy.”

“Don’t lie. It’s the best day of your life.”

He ate him out with both hands holding him open, mouth wet, greedy, and shameless. Nanami kept trying to turn and watch but kept failing. His head dropped back, knuckles white on the pillow. Every time Satoru hummed into him, Nanami’s body answered before his mouth could, thighs tightening, stomach fluttering, and breath breaking into Satoru’s name.

Satoru freed his mouth and turned Nanami over by his hips.

Nanami dragged him down by the back of his neck and kissed him hard.

By the time Satoru reached for the lube, Nanami was flushed from chest to ears, t-shirt sweaty, robe gone to the floor, one hand loosely covering his own mouth.

Satoru caught that wrist and kissed the ring. “Don’t hide from me.”

Nanami glanced at him, unfocused already.

Satoru slicked his fingers and pressed one in.

Nanami’s reply turned into a groan when Satoru curled his finger.

Satoru watched his face as he worked in the second finger, then the third, jaw tight, breathing worse every time Nanami opened for him. He was built for damage in every room except this one; here he was shaking because Nanami’s knees had parted for him and Nanami’s voice had gone soft with need.

“Tell me,” Satoru said, stroking him open. “Say it clearly while you still can.”

Nanami dragged him down by the neck. “Fuck me.”

Satoru looked grateful before he leaned down to kiss him hard, then lined up.

The head of his cock pressed in thick and heavy and already wet from precum and lube. Nanami grabbed his shoulders, mouth falling open before Satoru had even given him an inch.

“Too big,” Nanami choked out.

Satoru’s whole body answered before his mind, shoulders locking, hips stuttering once, control catching by a thread. Months of training had carved him down to discipline and hunger, early mornings in the cage, taped knuckles, ice baths, a title belt he’d brought home still undefeated. For the last few weeks, he'd spent practically every minute training or strategizing.

But none of it had prepared him for Nanami under him again, smaller by just enough to make Satoru feel obscene with it, broad where he liked him broad, and firm where Satoru wanted to bite, still taking him like his body remembered Satoru's, like coming home.

“I know, baby.” Satoru’s voice came out wrecked, almost laughing to hide the pleading under it. He pressed his forehead to Nanami’s and kissed damp skin on his nose, one hand rubbing circles into his lover's hips to help calm him. “I know. Breathe. I’ve got you. I won’t hurt you. Breathe for me. Fuck, Kento, breathe for me.”

Nanami tried. Satoru felt the attempt through his sternum below his own chest, the shiver, and the tight little pull of the ring of muscle around the head of his cock. God, Nanami’s ass was so honest, Satoru thought but didn't dare say out loud. Even when Nanami’s mouth argued, even when he made that low, annoyed sound like Satoru had offended him by being built this way, his hole kept fluttering around him, slick and hot, trying to push him out and drag him deeper in the same breath.

Satoru bit down on a groan. “Fuck, Kento. You feel that?” His thumb rubbed slow at the place Nanami’s hip flexed under his grip, careful despite the way his thighs shook with the need to stop being careful and bury himself until Nanami forgot the bed, the cake, the whole dam room. “Missed me so bad your body’s losing its mind.”

Nanami made an offended, strangled noise into Satoru’s neck and bit down hard.

“Yeah,” Satoru groaned from the pleasure and pain, hips bucking suddenly to press another inch in and going still the second Nanami tensed again. His mouth kept running anyway. “There you are. There’s my Ken-chan. Good for me, baby, so good. Still biting me while you take it. Fuck, Kento, you’re so tight I’m gonna lose my mind. Gonna come so deep for you. Bury my seed in you. Birthday present, yeah? You can complain after.” 

Nanami’s mouth fell open on the push, his hands locking around Satoru’s shoulders, nails digging into muscle. Satoru pushed deeper, and the sounds Nanami made turned shakier, forced out of him before he could swallow them. His eyes went glassy, thighs shaking around Satoru’s waist, tight at first, then worse when Satoru’s cock dragged over that familiar spot inside him, the one his body knew too well and had gone too long without.

“Kento,” Satoru breathed, wrecked with it. “Fuck, listen to you.”

Nanami went bright red from his chest to his ears and slapped a hand over Satoru’s mouth.

Satoru stopped, buried halfway.

For one second, he only stared down at him, breathing hard through his nose, eyes blown wide above Nanami’s palm. Then he kissed the inside of Nanami’s wrist, slow and obnoxiously tender, until Nanami’s hand loosened by itself.

Nanami pulled it away like he was offended his own body had betrayed him.

Satoru kissed his cheek, then his jaw, then the damp corner of his mouth. “Good. There you go. Take me.”

Nanami nodded against him, pretty and so dazed that Satoru almost lost his mind.

Satoru sank in the rest of the way.

For a second, neither of them moved. Satoru’s arms trembled beside Nanami’s head. Nanami’s hands slid down Satoru’s back, his thoughts thinning around the heat of him, around the familiar stretch his body had missed, around Satoru inside him.

Then Nanami whispered, “Move.”

Satoru pulled out until only the tip stayed inside him, then drove back in.

Nanami’s back arched off the bed.

Satoru did it again, harder, heavier, each stroke knocking another piece of speech out of him. Nanami stopped forming sentences. All he could give was Satoru’s name, then please, then a broken sound that made Satoru grin into his neck.

“God, Ken-chan, you have any idea,” Satoru panted, fucking him deep. “What you look like right now?”

The bed started giving them away, the frame knocking softly at first, then louder as Satoru lost the last of his patience.

“My husband,” Satoru groaned, almost laughing from how gone he sounded. “My spoiled Ken-chan. Birthday cake on your mouth, my ring on your hand, and still acting like you’re above begging.”

Nanami reached for him blindly.

Satoru caught his hand, kissed the ring again, and pinned it to the mattress while he fucked him harder.

---

Nanami complained after.

He did it with his face pressed into Satoru’s neck, one leg hooked around his waist.

Satoru listened very seriously, nodding into his hair and massaging Nanami’s aching hips. “Mhm. Awful. Terrible husband. Should I apologize with more cake or my mouth?”

Nanami went still.

Satoru grinned. “That’s what I thought.”

A/N: Thank you for reading!! I hope this felt like a tiny birthday treat for Nanami. Tell me which part made you smile; I’m nosy and I want to know. I’m especially wondering whether gym husband Satoru or interview husband Satoru wins.

Masterlist

Line dividers from @pixopix and engagement banners are mine.

“Did you call my assistant?”

His face did several little things before choosing confidence, which looked like a child trying to be brave. “I was just asking.”

“You asked my assistant to move my clients again.”

“I asked whether she could. There’s a difference.”

“No, there isn’t.”

He put the bread knife down. “I was trying to help.”

“You were trying to manage me.”

His mouth closed.

You slid the phone across the counter. “Read it.”

He read it. His shoulders pulled up a fraction, and his hair was falling near his nose because he had slept over, again, on the couch because you still had not given him back the right to your bed after cake and an apology and his pretty little speech on his knees.

Thin ice meant thin ice.

“I thought if I fixed the work part, you’d sleep,” he said.

“You don’t fix things by treating my work like a subscription you can cancel.”

His jaw flexed. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“You keep saying that.”

His eyes lifted.

You laughed, because if you didn’t, your throat would start doing that humiliating thing again. “My clients aren’t some cute obstacle between you and cuddling. They’re contracts. They’re my rent. They’re my staff getting paid. They’re my reputation. You helped damage that, Satoru, and now you want to buy your way out of feeling guilty.”

“That’s unfair.”

“So was me having to text you first.”

His hand fell from the counter.

You kept going because the words were already out, and if you stopped now, you would apologize. “You left. Fine. We fought, you were hurt, I was hurt. You gave the key back. Fine. But three days, Satoru? Three days, and I had to be the one to say come home?”

His mouth parted, then shut.

“You let me sit there feeling guilty for finally saying what hurt me. You let me wonder if I pushed too hard. If I was mean. If I should’ve swallowed it again because you got that look on your face and left.”

“I came back,” he said, voice lower.

“After I asked.”

His eyes flicked down to the counter.

You hated how badly you wanted him to deny it.

Satoru rubbed both hands over his face, then shoved his fingers into his hair. “I came back to your building twice before you called.”

You stared.

“The first night, I made it to the lobby. Flowers in my hand, by the way. I stood by the mailboxes for twenty minutes before your neighbors shooed me away. The security camera points right at that corner, so you can check if you don’t believe me. Every time the elevator opened, I thought, if she sees me here, I’m doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Making you take care of me.” His laugh came out loud, almost startling you. “I knew if I knocked, I’d beg. I’d say the right thing and look pathetic, and then you’d soften because you do that. You get mad and then you start checking if I’m fine.”

You swallowed.

He looked at you then, stripped of deflection. “You said I moved myself in. You were right. Then after the fight, I thought staying away was the right thing I could give you.”

Your voice came out low, almost a whisper. “So you made me ask.”

His face softened.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I did.”

Your eyes burned, and you hated him for making you cry in your own kitchen. “That was cruel.”

“I know.”

“You should’ve knocked. You should’ve said sorry through the door. You should’ve sent the flowers with Reina. You should’ve done anything except make me drag you back after the only time I tried to tell you what wasn't working.”

A tiny, bruised smile tried to appear on his stupid face. “I did carry the flowers around, but they dried in my car.”

“Satoru.”

He nodded, smile gone. “I’m sorry. For that too.”

You wiped under your eye with the heel of your palm. “Call Reina.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Speaker.”

He obeyed fast enough to prove he could when he wanted to. Reina answered on the third ring, sounding polite in the way people did when they were looking to commit murder on company time.

“Hai, Gojo-san. What can I do for you?”

“Hai, Reina. Please ignore the schedule thing. Your boss is in charge of her calendar. I’m a rich idiot with boundary problems.”

A pause came that lasted too long.

You covered your mouth.

Then Reina cleared her throat. “Would you like me to write that down?”

Satoru shut his eyes. “I feel you already have.”

“I have.”

“Great. Please add that if she wants help, she’ll tell me in words, because I’m trainable.”

“That part may be too optimistic, Gojo-san.”

You couldn't hide your laugh in your palm.

Satoru looked wounded.

“Goodbye, Gojo-san.”

The call ended.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then he pushed the pudding plate toward you, this time with a spoon. “You ate breakfast?”

“No.”

His face changed.

You lifted one finger to his face. “Do not start.”

His mouth pressed tight. He grabbed his phone instead and typed. “What are you doing?”

“Ordering food. Asking first would be growth, so can I order breakfast?”

You hated that it worked on you, but only because you were actually hungry for real food and not just desserts. “Yes.”

His shoulders loosened.

“And,” you added before he could start celebrating, “I want to meet someone from your life.”

He stared at you with an unreadable expression.

“One person. This week.”

His fingers twitched over the screen.

You braced for the joke.

“Shoko,” he finally said after a few seconds of thinking.

“The doctor?”

“Yeah, she’s my oldest friend.”

“Only her?”

“For now.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Why only her?”

“Because Shoko knows the bad parts and won’t use you to get to me. Also, because she’s the hardest to get to because she stays away from the real world or the fights—safe at Jujutsu Tech—it's unlikely for anyone to use her to get to you. And if Shoko dies, I’m dead, the higher-ups are eating each other, and jujutsu society is already well into the ground.”

“That is… not comforting.”

“It’s the truth.”

“What about your students?”

“No, they look very adoptable. But that’s beside the point. One of them is a demonic vessel.”

“What about Nanami?”

“Absolutely not.”

You blinked back. “That was very fast. Why?”

“He asks women if they’ve eaten.” Satoru pointed the spoon at you. “You are vulnerable to that kind of behavior.”

“Why because you starved me emotionally?”

His face fell. “I’m sorry.”

“And physically, sometimes.” You smiled chidingly.

He looked away, lips almost pouting. “I’m ordering breakfast.”

“Why because Nanami might steal your girl?”

“He owns beige suits, a retirement plan, and is vulnerable to running away. Of course he might steal my girl. I’m annoying and explosive.”

You looked at him for a long second.

He looked back, serious and waiting.

“Shoko,” you finally said.

“Shoko,” he agreed. “I’ll ask her today.”

Two nights later, you met Ieiri Shoko at a molecular bar in Chuo-ku, Tokyo.

Shoko looked from you to Satoru, then back again. “Huh.”

Satoru frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means huh.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh.

He turned to you. “Don’t bond with her over this.”

“I haven’t even said anything yet,” you shrugged.

“You smiled.”

Shoko opened the menu. “Relax. I’m sure she’ll recover.”

After that, Satoru kept placing himself between you and Shoko like he was enforcing the assigned seating.

Shoko accepted the tiny dish the chef set down in front of her, glanced at you, then said, “So you’re the one who made him this annoying.”

You glanced back. “Was he better before?”

“No. Just less moist.” Unbeknownst to you, after fighting with you Shoko had caught him crying one too many times.

Satoru made a strangled sound. “I brought you here to support me.”

“I’m supporting.”

You laughed, and Shoko’s mouth barely moved around the drink she was sipping from.

Then she leaned a little closer to be heard over the chef explaining something with smoke curling off a black plate. “You have nice legs.”

You looked down at them, confused. “Oh.”

“You workout a lot?”

Satoru’s head turned slowly. “Shoko.”

To anyone else, Shoko still looked bored. To you, she looked like a tired doctor making conversation. To Satoru, she had just used the same flat voice she used on Utahime before offering a “routine mammogram” that Jujutsu Tech did not provide.

“What?” she asked.

“Don’t what me.”

You looked between them. “Did I miss something?”

“No,” Shoko answered, at the exact same time Satoru did, “Yes.”

“I complimented her.” She smiled mildly at you.

“You never compliment anyone.” He grumbled.

Shoko took another sip from her drink. “Maybe because you don’t bring me pretty women.”

Your mouth twitched before you could stop it.

Satoru stared at you. “Do not encourage her.”

After that, she told you what she could about Satoru—teacher, sorcerer, clan garbage, dangerous work, bad hours, and injuries that looked worse than he’d admit. Names she could give, names she couldn’t yet. She didn’t sugarcoat anything or turn him into some tragic prince. She said he was irritating, loyal, reckless with himself, and miserable when lonely.

Satoru kept rearranging the tiny spoon beside his plate and let her talk.

That made your chest hurt.

She looked at you again. “I never knew about you two days ago. And now he won't shut up about you.”

Satoru reached for your hand under the counter.

You smiled. “Good things hopefully?”

Shoko shrugged. “Something like that.”

Satoru squeezed your fingers. “Let’s leave after dessert.”

When Shoko went to pay, Satoru tried to slap his card down first.

Shoko watched him do it, then watched him give you his jacket, and smiled around her drink.

On the walk home, Satoru carried your leftovers, your bag, and the convenience store drink he had bought after asking if you wanted one.

At his door, he stopped before unlocking it.

You watched him look at the key in his hand, then at you, like the metal had suddenly become heavier.

Then he pulled another one from his pocket and placed it in your palm.

You looked down at it. “To your place?”

He nodded, throat moving. “Yeah.”

Your eyes softened.

Then he bent and kissed you, hands careful around your face. He was trying again without making you answer out loud.

When he lifted his head, his mouth brushed yours as he said, “Nanami still isn’t invited.”

You closed your fingers around the key. “We’ll see.”

His face dropped. “That means no.”

“It means feed me before I remember he exists.”

Within the next breath Satoru unlocked the door, kicked off his shoes, and ran to the kitchen.

Later, in his bed, he had one hand spread over your stomach.

“When I told you about the school,” he murmured, mouth brushing your jaw. “Couldn’t know about this.”

Your knees were on either side of his hips, thighs trembling, but you weren’t the one moving. You couldn’t. The invisible pressure under you was lifting you slowly, then bringing you back down onto his cock until your fingers dug into his back without letting you have him.

Fullness came with the warmth stripped out. Hard pressure pressed deep, shaped like him deep inside your pussy, holding you open while Infinity kept his skin a cruel breath away. Your body kept reaching for what wasn’t there, for his body heat, for slick friction from his precum, or any living give of his cock when you clenched around him. All you got was the space his technique controlled, thin and merciless, filling you without letting you have him until your hips twitched from wanting the real thing.

“Satoru—”

“I know, baby.” His voice had gone low in a way you had never heard from him before, all that stupid sweetness turned into something rougher. “I know. Let me do the work tonight.”

You tried to tell him that wasn't what you were trying to say, but the sound came out broken.

“Shush,” His thumb caught the fresh tears sliding down your cheek. “Look at you. Crying because I’m finally giving you what you need.”

You sobbed out something that might have been his name.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered huskily. “For making you ask and letting you get tired, thinking being wanted meant I could just take.”

The force under your hips changed, small and mean, and your whole body jerked.

He kissed the corner of your mouth. “My smart girl can’t even scold me now, huh.”

“S’too much. Wanna f-feel you.”

“I know.” His arms came around you, warm and solid under all that impossible power. “You can take it just a little bit more. I’ll take care of you. Wanted to do this for a long time.”

You cried into his neck as his infinity bounced you on his cock in careful and merciless rolls while he praised you until the barrier finally thinned and the first real touch of his tip against your cervix made you immediately cum.

A/N: Thoughts?

Part 1 | Masterlist

"You left it in the fruit bowl."

Satoru wandered into the kitchen.

Sure enough, the black mouthguard sat beside the bananas. "...Huh."

Nanami pointed at the now folded laundry. "I washed it."

"My angel."

"My husband."

"My beautiful husband."

"You've said 'husband' three times in thirty seconds."

"I like saying it."

"I know."

Satoru abandoned the mouthguard entirely.

He crossed the apartment in long strides before collapsing sideways onto the couch, folding six-foot-three worth of professional fighter into Nanami’s lap as if gravity simply worked differently for him.

His hair still smelled faintly of shampoo.

Nanami sighed with all the resignation of someone who had accepted years ago that personal space had become a historical concept. "You have training."

"I do."

"You should leave."

"I should."

Neither of them moved.

Instead, Satoru tucked his face into Nanami's stomach. "I love you."

"I know."

"You didn't say it back."

Nanami smiled before setting another folded shirt onto the pile. "I was getting there."

"I almost died waiting."

"You've survived title fights."

"Those were easier."

Nanami finally leaned down, brushing Satoru's hair away from his forehead.

"I love you too."

Satoru actually melted. Every muscle in his shoulders relaxed until he looked less like the heavyweight champion of the world and more like an overgrown white cat discovering blankets for the first time.

"My daily vitamin."

The gym had stopped pretending not to know Nanami months into their marriage.

At first everyone had tried very hard to act professional.

"Good morning, Nanami-san."

"Coffee?"

"Can we get you anything?"

Now—

"KEN!"

Half the room looked up.

Nanami had barely stepped inside before Satoru jogged across the mats.

His coach yelled after him. "GOJO! WE'RE IN THE MIDDLE OF DRILLS!"

"I know!"

"WHERE ARE YOU GOING?"

"My husband's here."

"..."

"..."

"...Carry on."

Nobody argued anymore.

Satoru reached Nanami in seconds, immediately wrapping thick arms around his waist. "You came."

"You forgot your lunch." Nanami held up an insulated bag. "And your wallet."

"..."

"And your phone."

"..."

"And your belt."

"..."

Satoru looked genuinely impressed. "Honey."

"Yes?"

"How did I leave the belt?"

"You were looking at me."

"Oh."

"That's usually the answer."

Satoru accepted this with sincerity. "Fair."

He kissed Nanami's forehead. Then both cheeks. Then the tip of his nose. Then his mouth. Then once more because he hadn't finished.

Several heavy bags swung with random punches.

Someone coughed.

The strength coach checked his watch.

One of the younger fighters whispered, "Is this normal?"

His sparring partner answered without looking up. "This is restrained."

---

Fight nights were worse or…better. Depending on who you asked.

Nanami always sat in the same seat—front row, fur jacket, crossed legs, hands folded neatly in his lap.

The cameras adored him, and the commentators had started calling him “Gojo's lucky charm.”

They were wrong.

He was the person Satoru looked for before the referee touched gloves.

As he walked toward the cage, his eyes swept across thousands of screaming people—sponsors, photographers, celebrities, security, and lights.

Then his cerulean eyes landed on warm whiskey ones, blond hair, and a small smile.

Nanami lifted both thumbs.

Gojo grinned.

The tension vanished from his shoulders instantly.

The referee hadn't even started introductions yet.

Across the aisle, another fighter laughed. "Man."

"What?" His coach asked.

"I think he'd fight God if that blond guy asked."

"..."

"He probably would."

---

Interviews never improved.

"Gojo! Incredible knockout tonight! Thoughts?"

"My husband looked really pretty."

"...About the fight?"

"I promised Ken we'd get Shirayaki after."

"...Your opponent?"

"He hit weak."

"...Any message for your fans?"

Satoru pointed directly into the camera. "My husband's the cutest person alive."

Backstage, Nanami buried his face into both hands.

The promoter groaned.

The social media manager started typing before the interview had even ended.

THE RITUAL CONTINUES AS GOJO CALLS HUSBAND CUTEST PERSON ALIVE AFTER TITLE DEFENSE.

---

There was one person Satoru became frightening around. People assumed opponents, trash-talkers, or internet trolls.

No.

"The scissors are awfully close."

The stylist looked up. "...Sir."

"One wrong snip."

"Sir."

"I notice everything."

Nanami reached over from the waiting chair where he was flipping through a magazine. "Satoru."

Immediately—"Yes, baby?"

"You're making him nervous."

"..."

"...Sorry."

He wasn't.

Ten minutes later—"He took too much off."

Nanami looked in the mirror. "They trimmed half a centimeter."

"Exactly."

"I asked them to."

"..."

"..."

"...Well if you wanted it—"

"I did."

"...Then it's perfect."

---

After lunch one day Nanami wandered into Satoru's office at home.

The walls were covered in championship belts, signed gloves, magazine covers, and photos with athletes, promoters, presidents, and movie stars.

Then, in the middle of everything was a tiny Polaroid of Nanami wearing pajamas, asleep, and wrapped around a stuffed polar bear.

He stared. "...Satoru."

"What?"

"Why is this framed?"

Satoru didn't even look up from taping his wrists. "I like it."

"I am drooling and my hair looks terrible."

"I know."

Nanami stared at the picture again.

Then at the championship belts surrounding it. "...You put me in the middle."

"Yeah."

"...Why?"

Satoru looked genuinely confused. "'Cause you're the most important one."

He said it the way someone might explain why the sky was blue, simple, obvious, and already true.

Nanami crossed the room before Satoru had finished wrapping his hands and cupped Satoru's face with both palms.

"You know," he murmured, smiling so softly it almost disappeared, "I used to think I was your biggest fan."

"You still are."

"No."

He kissed him once. "I think you're mine."

For perhaps the only time that year, Satoru Gojo forgot how to speak.

When his coach opened the office door five minutes later, the heavyweight champion was sitting on the floor with his forehead pressed against Nanami's stomach while Nanami carded slow fingers through his hair.

"Champ."

No response.

"Champ?"

Still nothing.

Nanami looked up with a tiny apologetic smile.

"I may have complimented him."

The coach sighed. "Again?"

"I'm afraid so."

"...How long?"

Satoru finally answered, voice muffled against Nanami's sweater. “Give me another minute."

Nanami scratched lightly behind his ear. "Take two."

"You're the best, Ken."

Nanami laughed under his breath.

---

Later that night, Nanami found the birthday cake in the fridge with KENTO written in blue icing and three strawberries missing from the corner.

“Satoru?”

From the bedroom, a loud guilty voice followed. “I was checking if they were sweet enough for you.”

“You ate my cake.”

“I tested your cake.”

Nanami stood in the kitchen doorway with the plate in one hand.

Satoru was already sitting upright in bed, hair pointing in several directions, expression elated in a way that would have been embarrassing on any other man.

“Come here,” Nanami said.

The heavyweight champion of the world crossed the room barefoot, kissed icing from Nanami’s thumb, and looked stupidly pleased when Nanami let him have the bite.

“Can I eat your cake for real now?”

NSFW

Nanami stared at him over the plate. “Satoru.”

“That sounded judgmental.”

“Maybe it was.”

Satoru grinned stupidly and came closer. He was tall enough that Nanami had to tilt his chin and broad enough to eclipse the dresser behind him. He still smelled faintly of cake and their shampoo, hair ruined from bed. His hands settled on Nanami’s waist with the care of a man who had won matches in under a minute and still took ten years deciding where to kiss his husband first.

Nanami lifted the plate between them. “Have a piece.”

“I want the icing.”

“Use a fork.”

Nanami had gotten icing on his thumb and was bringing it to his mouth when Satoru caught his wrist, sucked the thumb between his lips, and looked up at him from under messy white lashes.

Nanami’s mouth fell open on a breath, his ears going red before he could look away.

Satoru grinned, took the plate from him, and set it on the dresser without looking away. “I have plans for the icing.”

That was how Nanami ended up spread across their bed with his tangerine shirt pushed to his ribs, shorts thrown god knows where, blond hair crushed into the pillows, and the blue-feathered robe he had worn earlier sliding off one shoulder into an expensive heap.

Satoru dragged icing over his sternum with his thumb, then lower down to his Adonis belt, so slow it made Nanami’s stomach tighten before before skin even met skin.

“Cold?” Satoru asked.

Nanami looked down at him, breath already hitching at intervals. "N-no."

Satoru bent and licked the first streak clean with his tongue.

Nanami’s fingers sank into his hair immediately. He tugged, not to stop him but to guide him where to stay. Satoru followed with tongue, teeth, and mouth dragging over sugar and skin, every kiss messier than the last until Nanami’s chest lifted for him without being asked.

“Look at you,” Satoru murmured against his pelvis. “Birthday boy in feathers, letting me eat cake off him.”

Nanami’s breathing deepened when his thigh brushed the hard line of Satoru through his sweats. “You’re hard enough to bruise me through your pants.”

“I know. It’s serious.”

Nanami’s breath hitched when Satoru licked icing off Nanami’s tip, lips swallowing around it.

"God, you’re drooling so much, Satoru.”

Satoru let go with a wet pop, spit connecting his lips to Nanami’s tip. “Pretty blondie,” he murmured against him. “Pretty husband. Pretty everything.”

Nanami laughed, then sucked in air when Satoru shifted, grabbed his hips, and dragged him lower on the mattress to bite gently at his hip, then slapped it and watched the plump skin bounce back. Then Satoru kissed down with greedy devotion, his body broad enough to cage Nanami in without trying. Nanami was braced on one elbow at first, chin lifted, mouth loud because Satoru liked it when he was.

Satoru got between his thighs, palms spreading his hips open with the same careful strength he used wrapping his hands before a fight.

Nanami’s thighs twitched under Satoru’s arms.

Satoru put icing on his tongue first, then licked over Nanami’s fluttering hole, slow enough to feel him clench before he kissed deeper, humming from the taste. The sound was so heavy it sent shivers up Nanami’s neck, making him redder when Satoru’s tongue finally prodded in.

The push of Satoru’s tongue had Nanami’s hips jerking, one knee digging into the bed, his voice snapping loose in a way Satoru felt in his own cock.

“Fuck,” Satoru said, lifting his mouth just enough to talk against him. “That sound. Give me more of that.”

The second Satoru’s tongue pushed in deeper through the tight ring of muscle again, Nanami’s elbow slipped, making his head bury into the pillows. His wet, hot tongue flicked against Nanami’s spot with the muscle memory of years together, and the next thing Nanami said came out broken, more breath than word, and Satoru made another, louder, pleased sound against him.

“There,” Satoru said, low and warm, lifting his mouth just enough to speak before biting Kento’s plump ass cheeks, still holding him open with both his thumbs. “That’s what I wanted. Let me have you, Ken.”

Nanami’s hand shook in his hair. “You’re filthy.”

“Don’t lie. It’s the best day of your life.”

He ate him out with both hands holding him open, mouth wet, greedy, and shameless. Nanami kept trying to turn and watch but kept failing. His head dropped back, knuckles white on the pillow. Every time Satoru hummed into him, Nanami’s body answered before his mouth could, thighs tightening, stomach fluttering, and breath breaking into Satoru’s name.

Satoru freed his mouth and turned Nanami over by his hips.

Nanami dragged him down by the back of his neck and kissed him hard.

By the time Satoru reached for the lube, Nanami was flushed from chest to ears, t-shirt sweaty, robe gone to the floor, one hand loosely covering his own mouth.

Satoru caught that wrist and kissed the ring. “Don’t hide from me.”

Nanami glanced at him, unfocused already.

Satoru slicked his fingers and pressed one in.

Nanami’s reply turned into a groan when Satoru curled his finger.

Satoru watched his face as he worked in the second finger, then the third, jaw tight, breathing worse every time Nanami opened for him. He was built for damage in every room except this one; here he was shaking because Nanami’s knees had parted for him and Nanami’s voice had gone soft with need.

“Tell me,” Satoru said, stroking him open. “Say it clearly while you still can.”

Nanami dragged him down by the neck. “Fuck me.”

Satoru looked grateful before he leaned down to kiss him hard, then lined up.

The head of his cock pressed in thick and heavy and already wet from precum and lube. Nanami grabbed his shoulders, mouth falling open before Satoru had even given him an inch.

“Too big,” Nanami choked out.

Satoru’s whole body answered before his mind, shoulders locking, hips stuttering once, control catching by a thread. Months of training had carved him down to discipline and hunger, early mornings in the cage, taped knuckles, ice baths, a title belt he’d brought home still undefeated. For the last few weeks, he'd spent practically every minute training or strategizing.

But none of it had prepared him for Nanami under him again, smaller by just enough to make Satoru feel obscene with it, broad where he liked him broad, and firm where Satoru wanted to bite, still taking him like his body remembered Satoru's, like coming home.

“I know, baby.” Satoru’s voice came out wrecked, almost laughing to hide the pleading under it. He pressed his forehead to Nanami’s and kissed damp skin on his nose, one hand rubbing circles into his lover's hips to help calm him. “I know. Breathe. I’ve got you. I won’t hurt you. Breathe for me. Fuck, Kento, breathe for me.”

Nanami tried. Satoru felt the attempt through his sternum below his own chest, the shiver, and the tight little pull of the ring of muscle around the head of his cock. God, Nanami’s ass was so honest, Satoru thought but didn't dare say out loud. Even when Nanami’s mouth argued, even when he made that low, annoyed sound like Satoru had offended him by being built this way, his hole kept fluttering around him, slick and hot, trying to push him out and drag him deeper in the same breath.

Satoru bit down on a groan. “Fuck, Kento. You feel that?” His thumb rubbed slow at the place Nanami’s hip flexed under his grip, careful despite the way his thighs shook with the need to stop being careful and bury himself until Nanami forgot the bed, the cake, the whole dam room. “Missed me so bad your body’s losing its mind.”

Nanami made an offended, strangled noise into Satoru’s neck and bit down hard.

“Yeah,” Satoru groaned from the pleasure and pain, hips bucking suddenly to press another inch in and going still the second Nanami tensed again. His mouth kept running anyway. “There you are. There’s my Ken-chan. Good for me, baby, so good. Still biting me while you take it. Fuck, Kento, you’re so tight I’m gonna lose my mind. Gonna come so deep for you. Bury my seed in you. Birthday present, yeah? You can complain after.” 

Nanami’s mouth fell open on the push, his hands locking around Satoru’s shoulders, nails digging into muscle. Satoru pushed deeper, and the sounds Nanami made turned shakier, forced out of him before he could swallow them. His eyes went glassy, thighs shaking around Satoru’s waist, tight at first, then worse when Satoru’s cock dragged over that familiar spot inside him, the one his body knew too well and had gone too long without.

“Kento,” Satoru breathed, wrecked with it. “Fuck, listen to you.”

Nanami went bright red from his chest to his ears and slapped a hand over Satoru’s mouth.

Satoru stopped, buried halfway.

For one second, he only stared down at him, breathing hard through his nose, eyes blown wide above Nanami’s palm. Then he kissed the inside of Nanami’s wrist, slow and obnoxiously tender, until Nanami’s hand loosened by itself.

Nanami pulled it away like he was offended his own body had betrayed him.

Satoru kissed his cheek, then his jaw, then the damp corner of his mouth. “Good. There you go. Take me.”

Nanami nodded against him, pretty and so dazed that Satoru almost lost his mind.

Satoru sank in the rest of the way.

For a second, neither of them moved. Satoru’s arms trembled beside Nanami’s head. Nanami’s hands slid down Satoru’s back, his thoughts thinning around the heat of him, around the familiar stretch his body had missed, around Satoru inside him.

Then Nanami whispered, “Move.”

Satoru pulled out until only the tip stayed inside him, then drove back in.

Nanami’s back arched off the bed.

Satoru did it again, harder, heavier, each stroke knocking another piece of speech out of him. Nanami stopped forming sentences. All he could give was Satoru’s name, then please, then a broken sound that made Satoru grin into his neck.

“God, Ken-chan, you have any idea,” Satoru panted, fucking him deep. “What you look like right now?”

The bed started giving them away, the frame knocking softly at first, then louder as Satoru lost the last of his patience.

“My husband,” Satoru groaned, almost laughing from how gone he sounded. “My spoiled Ken-chan. Birthday cake on your mouth, my ring on your hand, and still acting like you’re above begging.”

Nanami reached for him blindly.

Satoru caught his hand, kissed the ring again, and pinned it to the mattress while he fucked him harder.

---

Nanami complained after.

He did it with his face pressed into Satoru’s neck, one leg hooked around his waist.

Satoru listened very seriously, nodding into his hair and massaging Nanami’s aching hips. “Mhm. Awful. Terrible husband. Should I apologize with more cake or my mouth?”

Nanami went still.

Satoru grinned. “That’s what I thought.”

A/N: Thank you for reading!! I hope this felt like a tiny birthday treat for Nanami. Tell me which part made you smile; I’m nosy and I want to know. I’m especially wondering whether gym husband Satoru or interview husband Satoru wins.

Masterlist

Line dividers from @pixopix and engagement banners are mine.

“Did you call my assistant?”

His face did several little things before choosing confidence, which looked like a child trying to be brave. “I was just asking.”

“You asked my assistant to move my clients again.”

“I asked whether she could. There’s a difference.”

“No, there isn’t.”

He put the bread knife down. “I was trying to help.”

“You were trying to manage me.”

His mouth closed.

You slid the phone across the counter. “Read it.”

He read it. His shoulders pulled up a fraction, and his hair was falling near his nose because he had slept over, again, on the couch because you still had not given him back the right to your bed after cake and an apology and his pretty little speech on his knees.

Thin ice meant thin ice.

“I thought if I fixed the work part, you’d sleep,” he said.

“You don’t fix things by treating my work like a subscription you can cancel.”

His jaw flexed. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“You keep saying that.”

His eyes lifted.

You laughed, because if you didn’t, your throat would start doing that humiliating thing again. “My clients aren’t some cute obstacle between you and cuddling. They’re contracts. They’re my rent. They’re my staff getting paid. They’re my reputation. You helped damage that, Satoru, and now you want to buy your way out of feeling guilty.”

“That’s unfair.”

“So was me having to text you first.”

His hand fell from the counter.

You kept going because the words were already out, and if you stopped now, you would apologize. “You left. Fine. We fought, you were hurt, I was hurt. You gave the key back. Fine. But three days, Satoru? Three days, and I had to be the one to say come home?”

His mouth parted, then shut.

“You let me sit there feeling guilty for finally saying what hurt me. You let me wonder if I pushed too hard. If I was mean. If I should’ve swallowed it again because you got that look on your face and left.”

“I came back,” he said, voice lower.

“After I asked.”

His eyes flicked down to the counter.

You hated how badly you wanted him to deny it.

Satoru rubbed both hands over his face, then shoved his fingers into his hair. “I came back to your building twice before you called.”

You stared.

“The first night, I made it to the lobby. Flowers in my hand, by the way. I stood by the mailboxes for twenty minutes before your neighbors shooed me away. The security camera points right at that corner, so you can check if you don’t believe me. Every time the elevator opened, I thought, if she sees me here, I’m doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Making you take care of me.” His laugh came out loud, almost startling you. “I knew if I knocked, I’d beg. I’d say the right thing and look pathetic, and then you’d soften because you do that. You get mad and then you start checking if I’m fine.”

You swallowed.

He looked at you then, stripped of deflection. “You said I moved myself in. You were right. Then after the fight, I thought staying away was the right thing I could give you.”

Your voice came out low, almost a whisper. “So you made me ask.”

His face softened.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I did.”

Your eyes burned, and you hated him for making you cry in your own kitchen. “That was cruel.”

“I know.”

“You should’ve knocked. You should’ve said sorry through the door. You should’ve sent the flowers with Reina. You should’ve done anything except make me drag you back after the only time I tried to tell you what wasn't working.”

A tiny, bruised smile tried to appear on his stupid face. “I did carry the flowers around, but they dried in my car.”

“Satoru.”

He nodded, smile gone. “I’m sorry. For that too.”

You wiped under your eye with the heel of your palm. “Call Reina.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Speaker.”

He obeyed fast enough to prove he could when he wanted to. Reina answered on the third ring, sounding polite in the way people did when they were looking to commit murder on company time.

“Hai, Gojo-san. What can I do for you?”

“Hai, Reina. Please ignore the schedule thing. Your boss is in charge of her calendar. I’m a rich idiot with boundary problems.”

A pause came that lasted too long.

You covered your mouth.

Then Reina cleared her throat. “Would you like me to write that down?”

Satoru shut his eyes. “I feel you already have.”

“I have.”

“Great. Please add that if she wants help, she’ll tell me in words, because I’m trainable.”

“That part may be too optimistic, Gojo-san.”

You couldn't hide your laugh in your palm.

Satoru looked wounded.

“Goodbye, Gojo-san.”

The call ended.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then he pushed the pudding plate toward you, this time with a spoon. “You ate breakfast?”

“No.”

His face changed.

You lifted one finger to his face. “Do not start.”

His mouth pressed tight. He grabbed his phone instead and typed. “What are you doing?”

“Ordering food. Asking first would be growth, so can I order breakfast?”

You hated that it worked on you, but only because you were actually hungry for real food and not just desserts. “Yes.”

His shoulders loosened.

“And,” you added before he could start celebrating, “I want to meet someone from your life.”

He stared at you with an unreadable expression.

“One person. This week.”

His fingers twitched over the screen.

You braced for the joke.

“Shoko,” he finally said after a few seconds of thinking.

“The doctor?”

“Yeah, she’s my oldest friend.”

“Only her?”

“For now.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Why only her?”

“Because Shoko knows the bad parts and won’t use you to get to me. Also, because she’s the hardest to get to because she stays away from the real world or the fights—safe at Jujutsu Tech—it's unlikely for anyone to use her to get to you. And if Shoko dies, I’m dead, the higher-ups are eating each other, and jujutsu society is already well into the ground.”

“That is… not comforting.”

“It’s the truth.”

“What about your students?”

“No, they look very adoptable. But that’s beside the point. One of them is a demonic vessel.”

“What about Nanami?”

“Absolutely not.”

You blinked back. “That was very fast. Why?”

“He asks women if they’ve eaten.” Satoru pointed the spoon at you. “You are vulnerable to that kind of behavior.”

“Why because you starved me emotionally?”

His face fell. “I’m sorry.”

“And physically, sometimes.” You smiled chidingly.

He looked away, lips almost pouting. “I’m ordering breakfast.”

“Why because Nanami might steal your girl?”

“He owns beige suits, a retirement plan, and is vulnerable to running away. Of course he might steal my girl. I’m annoying and explosive.”

You looked at him for a long second.

He looked back, serious and waiting.

“Shoko,” you finally said.

“Shoko,” he agreed. “I’ll ask her today.”

Two nights later, you met Ieiri Shoko at a molecular bar in Chuo-ku, Tokyo.

Shoko looked from you to Satoru, then back again. “Huh.”

Satoru frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means huh.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh.

He turned to you. “Don’t bond with her over this.”

“I haven’t even said anything yet,” you shrugged.

“You smiled.”

Shoko opened the menu. “Relax. I’m sure she’ll recover.”

After that, Satoru kept placing himself between you and Shoko like he was enforcing the assigned seating.

Shoko accepted the tiny dish the chef set down in front of her, glanced at you, then said, “So you’re the one who made him this annoying.”

You glanced back. “Was he better before?”

“No. Just less moist.” Unbeknownst to you, after fighting with you Shoko had caught him crying one too many times.

Satoru made a strangled sound. “I brought you here to support me.”

“I’m supporting.”

You laughed, and Shoko’s mouth barely moved around the drink she was sipping from.

Then she leaned a little closer to be heard over the chef explaining something with smoke curling off a black plate. “You have nice legs.”

You looked down at them, confused. “Oh.”

“You workout a lot?”

Satoru’s head turned slowly. “Shoko.”

To anyone else, Shoko still looked bored. To you, she looked like a tired doctor making conversation. To Satoru, she had just used the same flat voice she used on Utahime before offering a “routine mammogram” that Jujutsu Tech did not provide.

“What?” she asked.

“Don’t what me.”

You looked between them. “Did I miss something?”

“No,” Shoko answered, at the exact same time Satoru did, “Yes.”

“I complimented her.” She smiled mildly at you.

“You never compliment anyone.” He grumbled.

Shoko took another sip from her drink. “Maybe because you don’t bring me pretty women.”

Your mouth twitched before you could stop it.

Satoru stared at you. “Do not encourage her.”

After that, she told you what she could about Satoru—teacher, sorcerer, clan garbage, dangerous work, bad hours, and injuries that looked worse than he’d admit. Names she could give, names she couldn’t yet. She didn’t sugarcoat anything or turn him into some tragic prince. She said he was irritating, loyal, reckless with himself, and miserable when lonely.

Satoru kept rearranging the tiny spoon beside his plate and let her talk.

That made your chest hurt.

She looked at you again. “I never knew about you two days ago. And now he won't shut up about you.”

Satoru reached for your hand under the counter.

You smiled. “Good things hopefully?”

Shoko shrugged. “Something like that.”

Satoru squeezed your fingers. “Let’s leave after dessert.”

When Shoko went to pay, Satoru tried to slap his card down first.

Shoko watched him do it, then watched him give you his jacket, and smiled around her drink.

On the walk home, Satoru carried your leftovers, your bag, and the convenience store drink he had bought after asking if you wanted one.

At his door, he stopped before unlocking it.

You watched him look at the key in his hand, then at you, like the metal had suddenly become heavier.

Then he pulled another one from his pocket and placed it in your palm.

You looked down at it. “To your place?”

He nodded, throat moving. “Yeah.”

Your eyes softened.

Then he bent and kissed you, hands careful around your face. He was trying again without making you answer out loud.

When he lifted his head, his mouth brushed yours as he said, “Nanami still isn’t invited.”

You closed your fingers around the key. “We’ll see.”

His face dropped. “That means no.”

“It means feed me before I remember he exists.”

Within the next breath Satoru unlocked the door, kicked off his shoes, and ran to the kitchen.

Later, in his bed, he had one hand spread over your stomach.

“When I told you about the school,” he murmured, mouth brushing your jaw. “Couldn’t know about this.”

Your knees were on either side of his hips, thighs trembling, but you weren’t the one moving. You couldn’t. The invisible pressure under you was lifting you slowly, then bringing you back down onto his cock until your fingers dug into his back without letting you have him.

Fullness came with the warmth stripped out. Hard pressure pressed deep, shaped like him deep inside your pussy, holding you open while Infinity kept his skin a cruel breath away. Your body kept reaching for what wasn’t there, for his body heat, for slick friction from his precum, or any living give of his cock when you clenched around him. All you got was the space his technique controlled, thin and merciless, filling you without letting you have him until your hips twitched from wanting the real thing.

“Satoru—”

“I know, baby.” His voice had gone low in a way you had never heard from him before, all that stupid sweetness turned into something rougher. “I know. Let me do the work tonight.”

You tried to tell him that wasn't what you were trying to say, but the sound came out broken.

“Shush,” His thumb caught the fresh tears sliding down your cheek. “Look at you. Crying because I’m finally giving you what you need.”

You sobbed out something that might have been his name.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered huskily. “For making you ask and letting you get tired, thinking being wanted meant I could just take.”

The force under your hips changed, small and mean, and your whole body jerked.

He kissed the corner of your mouth. “My smart girl can’t even scold me now, huh.”

“S’too much. Wanna f-feel you.”

“I know.” His arms came around you, warm and solid under all that impossible power. “You can take it just a little bit more. I’ll take care of you. Wanted to do this for a long time.”

You cried into his neck as his infinity bounced you on his cock in careful and merciless rolls while he praised you until the barrier finally thinned and the first real touch of his tip against your cervix made you immediately cum.

A/N: Thoughts?

Part 1 | Masterlist

“Did you call my assistant?”

His face did several little things before choosing confidence, which looked like a child trying to be brave. “I was just asking.”

“You asked my assistant to move my clients again.”

“I asked whether she could. There’s a difference.”

“No, there isn’t.”

He put the bread knife down. “I was trying to help.”

“You were trying to manage me.”

His mouth closed.

You slid the phone across the counter. “Read it.”

He read it. His shoulders pulled up a fraction, and his hair was falling near his nose because he had slept over, again, on the couch because you still had not given him back the right to your bed after cake and an apology and his pretty little speech on his knees.

Thin ice meant thin ice.

“I thought if I fixed the work part, you’d sleep,” he said.

“You don’t fix things by treating my work like a subscription you can cancel.”

His jaw flexed. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“You keep saying that.”

His eyes lifted.

You laughed, because if you didn’t, your throat would start doing that humiliating thing again. “My clients aren’t some cute obstacle between you and cuddling. They’re contracts. They’re my rent. They’re my staff getting paid. They’re my reputation. You helped damage that, Satoru, and now you want to buy your way out of feeling guilty.”

“That’s unfair.”

“So was me having to text you first.”

His hand fell from the counter.

You kept going because the words were already out, and if you stopped now, you would apologize. “You left. Fine. We fought, you were hurt, I was hurt. You gave the key back. Fine. But three days, Satoru? Three days, and I had to be the one to say come home?”

His mouth parted, then shut.

“You let me sit there feeling guilty for finally saying what hurt me. You let me wonder if I pushed too hard. If I was mean. If I should’ve swallowed it again because you got that look on your face and left.”

“I came back,” he said, voice lower.

“After I asked.”

His eyes flicked down to the counter.

You hated how badly you wanted him to deny it.

Satoru rubbed both hands over his face, then shoved his fingers into his hair. “I came back to your building twice before you called.”

You stared.

“The first night, I made it to the lobby. Flowers in my hand, by the way. I stood by the mailboxes for twenty minutes before your neighbors shooed me away. The security camera points right at that corner, so you can check if you don’t believe me. Every time the elevator opened, I thought, if she sees me here, I’m doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Making you take care of me.” His laugh came out loud, almost startling you. “I knew if I knocked, I’d beg. I’d say the right thing and look pathetic, and then you’d soften because you do that. You get mad and then you start checking if I’m fine.”

You swallowed.

He looked at you then, stripped of deflection. “You said I moved myself in. You were right. Then after the fight, I thought staying away was the right thing I could give you.”

Your voice came out low, almost a whisper. “So you made me ask.”

His face softened.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I did.”

Your eyes burned, and you hated him for making you cry in your own kitchen. “That was cruel.”

“I know.”

“You should’ve knocked. You should’ve said sorry through the door. You should’ve sent the flowers with Reina. You should’ve done anything except make me drag you back after the only time I tried to tell you what wasn't working.”

A tiny, bruised smile tried to appear on his stupid face. “I did carry the flowers around, but they dried in my car.”

“Satoru.”

He nodded, smile gone. “I’m sorry. For that too.”

You wiped under your eye with the heel of your palm. “Call Reina.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Speaker.”

He obeyed fast enough to prove he could when he wanted to. Reina answered on the third ring, sounding polite in the way people did when they were looking to commit murder on company time.

“Hai, Gojo-san. What can I do for you?”

“Hai, Reina. Please ignore the schedule thing. Your boss is in charge of her calendar. I’m a rich idiot with boundary problems.”

A pause came that lasted too long.

You covered your mouth.

Then Reina cleared her throat. “Would you like me to write that down?”

Satoru shut his eyes. “I feel you already have.”

“I have.”

“Great. Please add that if she wants help, she’ll tell me in words, because I’m trainable.”

“That part may be too optimistic, Gojo-san.”

You couldn't hide your laugh in your palm.

Satoru looked wounded.

“Goodbye, Gojo-san.”

The call ended.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then he pushed the pudding plate toward you, this time with a spoon. “You ate breakfast?”

“No.”

His face changed.

You lifted one finger to his face. “Do not start.”

His mouth pressed tight. He grabbed his phone instead and typed. “What are you doing?”

“Ordering food. Asking first would be growth, so can I order breakfast?”

You hated that it worked on you, but only because you were actually hungry for real food and not just desserts. “Yes.”

His shoulders loosened.

“And,” you added before he could start celebrating, “I want to meet someone from your life.”

He stared at you with an unreadable expression.

“One person. This week.”

His fingers twitched over the screen.

You braced for the joke.

“Shoko,” he finally said after a few seconds of thinking.

“The doctor?”

“Yeah, she’s my oldest friend.”

“Only her?”

“For now.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Why only her?”

“Because Shoko knows the bad parts and won’t use you to get to me. Also, because she’s the hardest to get to because she stays away from the real world or the fights—safe at Jujutsu Tech—it's unlikely for anyone to use her to get to you. And if Shoko dies, I’m dead, the higher-ups are eating each other, and jujutsu society is already well into the ground.”

“That is… not comforting.”

“It’s the truth.”

“What about your students?”

“No, they look very adoptable. But that’s beside the point. One of them is a demonic vessel.”

“What about Nanami?”

“Absolutely not.”

You blinked back. “That was very fast. Why?”

“He asks women if they’ve eaten.” Satoru pointed the spoon at you. “You are vulnerable to that kind of behavior.”

“Why because you starved me emotionally?”

His face fell. “I’m sorry.”

“And physically, sometimes.” You smiled chidingly.

He looked away, lips almost pouting. “I’m ordering breakfast.”

“Why because Nanami might steal your girl?”

“He owns beige suits, a retirement plan, and is vulnerable to running away. Of course he might steal my girl. I’m annoying and explosive.”

You looked at him for a long second.

He looked back, serious and waiting.

“Shoko,” you finally said.

“Shoko,” he agreed. “I’ll ask her today.”

Two nights later, you met Ieiri Shoko at a molecular bar in Chuo-ku, Tokyo.

Shoko looked from you to Satoru, then back again. “Huh.”

Satoru frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means huh.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh.

He turned to you. “Don’t bond with her over this.”

“I haven’t even said anything yet,” you shrugged.

“You smiled.”

Shoko opened the menu. “Relax. I’m sure she’ll recover.”

After that, Satoru kept placing himself between you and Shoko like he was enforcing the assigned seating.

Shoko accepted the tiny dish the chef set down in front of her, glanced at you, then said, “So you’re the one who made him this annoying.”

You glanced back. “Was he better before?”

“No. Just less moist.” Unbeknownst to you, after fighting with you Shoko had caught him crying one too many times.

Satoru made a strangled sound. “I brought you here to support me.”

“I’m supporting.”

You laughed, and Shoko’s mouth barely moved around the drink she was sipping from.

Then she leaned a little closer to be heard over the chef explaining something with smoke curling off a black plate. “You have nice legs.”

You looked down at them, confused. “Oh.”

“You workout a lot?”

Satoru’s head turned slowly. “Shoko.”

To anyone else, Shoko still looked bored. To you, she looked like a tired doctor making conversation. To Satoru, she had just used the same flat voice she used on Utahime before offering a “routine mammogram” that Jujutsu Tech did not provide.

“What?” she asked.

“Don’t what me.”

You looked between them. “Did I miss something?”

“No,” Shoko answered, at the exact same time Satoru did, “Yes.”

“I complimented her.” She smiled mildly at you.

“You never compliment anyone.” He grumbled.

Shoko took another sip from her drink. “Maybe because you don’t bring me pretty women.”

Your mouth twitched before you could stop it.

Satoru stared at you. “Do not encourage her.”

After that, she told you what she could about Satoru—teacher, sorcerer, clan garbage, dangerous work, bad hours, and injuries that looked worse than he’d admit. Names she could give, names she couldn’t yet. She didn’t sugarcoat anything or turn him into some tragic prince. She said he was irritating, loyal, reckless with himself, and miserable when lonely.

Satoru kept rearranging the tiny spoon beside his plate and let her talk.

That made your chest hurt.

She looked at you again. “I never knew about you two days ago. And now he won't shut up about you.”

Satoru reached for your hand under the counter.

You smiled. “Good things hopefully?”

Shoko shrugged. “Something like that.”

Satoru squeezed your fingers. “Let’s leave after dessert.”

When Shoko went to pay, Satoru tried to slap his card down first.

Shoko watched him do it, then watched him give you his jacket, and smiled around her drink.

On the walk home, Satoru carried your leftovers, your bag, and the convenience store drink he had bought after asking if you wanted one.

At his door, he stopped before unlocking it.

You watched him look at the key in his hand, then at you, like the metal had suddenly become heavier.

Then he pulled another one from his pocket and placed it in your palm.

You looked down at it. “To your place?”

He nodded, throat moving. “Yeah.”

Your eyes softened.

Then he bent and kissed you, hands careful around your face. He was trying again without making you answer out loud.

When he lifted his head, his mouth brushed yours as he said, “Nanami still isn’t invited.”

You closed your fingers around the key. “We’ll see.”

His face dropped. “That means no.”

“It means feed me before I remember he exists.”

Within the next breath Satoru unlocked the door, kicked off his shoes, and ran to the kitchen.

Later, in his bed, he had one hand spread over your stomach.

“When I told you about the school,” he murmured, mouth brushing your jaw. “Couldn’t know about this.”

Your knees were on either side of his hips, thighs trembling, but you weren’t the one moving. You couldn’t. The invisible pressure under you was lifting you slowly, then bringing you back down onto his cock until your fingers dug into his back without letting you have him.

Fullness came with the warmth stripped out. Hard pressure pressed deep, shaped like him deep inside your pussy, holding you open while Infinity kept his skin a cruel breath away. Your body kept reaching for what wasn’t there, for his body heat, for slick friction from his precum, or any living give of his cock when you clenched around him. All you got was the space his technique controlled, thin and merciless, filling you without letting you have him until your hips twitched from wanting the real thing.

“Satoru—”

“I know, baby.” His voice had gone low in a way you had never heard from him before, all that stupid sweetness turned into something rougher. “I know. Let me do the work tonight.”

You tried to tell him that wasn't what you were trying to say, but the sound came out broken.

“Shush,” His thumb caught the fresh tears sliding down your cheek. “Look at you. Crying because I’m finally giving you what you need.”

You sobbed out something that might have been his name.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered huskily. “For making you ask and letting you get tired, thinking being wanted meant I could just take.”

The force under your hips changed, small and mean, and your whole body jerked.

He kissed the corner of your mouth. “My smart girl can’t even scold me now, huh.”

“S’too much. Wanna f-feel you.”

“I know.” His arms came around you, warm and solid under all that impossible power. “You can take it just a little bit more. I’ll take care of you. Wanted to do this for a long time.”

You cried into his neck as his infinity bounced you on his cock in careful and merciless rolls while he praised you until the barrier finally thinned and the first real touch of his tip against your cervix made you immediately cum.

A/N: Thoughts?

Part 1 | Masterlist

"You left it in the fruit bowl."

Satoru wandered into the kitchen.

Sure enough, the black mouthguard sat beside the bananas. "...Huh."

Nanami pointed at the now folded laundry. "I washed it."

"My angel."

"My husband."

"My beautiful husband."

"You've said 'husband' three times in thirty seconds."

"I like saying it."

"I know."

Satoru abandoned the mouthguard entirely.

He crossed the apartment in long strides before collapsing sideways onto the couch, folding six-foot-three worth of professional fighter into Nanami’s lap as if gravity simply worked differently for him.

His hair still smelled faintly of shampoo.

Nanami sighed with all the resignation of someone who had accepted years ago that personal space had become a historical concept. "You have training."

"I do."

"You should leave."

"I should."

Neither of them moved.

Instead, Satoru tucked his face into Nanami's stomach. "I love you."

"I know."

"You didn't say it back."

Nanami smiled before setting another folded shirt onto the pile. "I was getting there."

"I almost died waiting."

"You've survived title fights."

"Those were easier."

Nanami finally leaned down, brushing Satoru's hair away from his forehead.

"I love you too."

Satoru actually melted. Every muscle in his shoulders relaxed until he looked less like the heavyweight champion of the world and more like an overgrown white cat discovering blankets for the first time.

"My daily vitamin."

The gym had stopped pretending not to know Nanami months into their marriage.

At first everyone had tried very hard to act professional.

"Good morning, Nanami-san."

"Coffee?"

"Can we get you anything?"

Now—

"KEN!"

Half the room looked up.

Nanami had barely stepped inside before Satoru jogged across the mats.

His coach yelled after him. "GOJO! WE'RE IN THE MIDDLE OF DRILLS!"

"I know!"

"WHERE ARE YOU GOING?"

"My husband's here."

"..."

"..."

"...Carry on."

Nobody argued anymore.

Satoru reached Nanami in seconds, immediately wrapping thick arms around his waist. "You came."

"You forgot your lunch." Nanami held up an insulated bag. "And your wallet."

"..."

"And your phone."

"..."

"And your belt."

"..."

Satoru looked genuinely impressed. "Honey."

"Yes?"

"How did I leave the belt?"

"You were looking at me."

"Oh."

"That's usually the answer."

Satoru accepted this with sincerity. "Fair."

He kissed Nanami's forehead. Then both cheeks. Then the tip of his nose. Then his mouth. Then once more because he hadn't finished.

Several heavy bags swung with random punches.

Someone coughed.

The strength coach checked his watch.

One of the younger fighters whispered, "Is this normal?"

His sparring partner answered without looking up. "This is restrained."

---

Fight nights were worse or…better. Depending on who you asked.

Nanami always sat in the same seat—front row, fur jacket, crossed legs, hands folded neatly in his lap.

The cameras adored him, and the commentators had started calling him “Gojo's lucky charm.”

They were wrong.

He was the person Satoru looked for before the referee touched gloves.

As he walked toward the cage, his eyes swept across thousands of screaming people—sponsors, photographers, celebrities, security, and lights.

Then his cerulean eyes landed on warm whiskey ones, blond hair, and a small smile.

Nanami lifted both thumbs.

Gojo grinned.

The tension vanished from his shoulders instantly.

The referee hadn't even started introductions yet.

Across the aisle, another fighter laughed. "Man."

"What?" His coach asked.

"I think he'd fight God if that blond guy asked."

"..."

"He probably would."

---

Interviews never improved.

"Gojo! Incredible knockout tonight! Thoughts?"

"My husband looked really pretty."

"...About the fight?"

"I promised Ken we'd get Shirayaki after."

"...Your opponent?"

"He hit weak."

"...Any message for your fans?"

Satoru pointed directly into the camera. "My husband's the cutest person alive."

Backstage, Nanami buried his face into both hands.

The promoter groaned.

The social media manager started typing before the interview had even ended.

THE RITUAL CONTINUES AS GOJO CALLS HUSBAND CUTEST PERSON ALIVE AFTER TITLE DEFENSE.

---

There was one person Satoru became frightening around. People assumed opponents, trash-talkers, or internet trolls.

No.

"The scissors are awfully close."

The stylist looked up. "...Sir."

"One wrong snip."

"Sir."

"I notice everything."

Nanami reached over from the waiting chair where he was flipping through a magazine. "Satoru."

Immediately—"Yes, baby?"

"You're making him nervous."

"..."

"...Sorry."

He wasn't.

Ten minutes later—"He took too much off."

Nanami looked in the mirror. "They trimmed half a centimeter."

"Exactly."

"I asked them to."

"..."

"..."

"...Well if you wanted it—"

"I did."

"...Then it's perfect."

---

After lunch one day Nanami wandered into Satoru's office at home.

The walls were covered in championship belts, signed gloves, magazine covers, and photos with athletes, promoters, presidents, and movie stars.

Then, in the middle of everything was a tiny Polaroid of Nanami wearing pajamas, asleep, and wrapped around a stuffed polar bear.

He stared. "...Satoru."

"What?"

"Why is this framed?"

Satoru didn't even look up from taping his wrists. "I like it."

"I am drooling and my hair looks terrible."

"I know."

Nanami stared at the picture again.

Then at the championship belts surrounding it. "...You put me in the middle."

"Yeah."

"...Why?"

Satoru looked genuinely confused. "'Cause you're the most important one."

He said it the way someone might explain why the sky was blue, simple, obvious, and already true.

Nanami crossed the room before Satoru had finished wrapping his hands and cupped Satoru's face with both palms.

"You know," he murmured, smiling so softly it almost disappeared, "I used to think I was your biggest fan."

"You still are."

"No."

He kissed him once. "I think you're mine."

For perhaps the only time that year, Satoru Gojo forgot how to speak.

When his coach opened the office door five minutes later, the heavyweight champion was sitting on the floor with his forehead pressed against Nanami's stomach while Nanami carded slow fingers through his hair.

"Champ."

No response.

"Champ?"

Still nothing.

Nanami looked up with a tiny apologetic smile.

"I may have complimented him."

The coach sighed. "Again?"

"I'm afraid so."

"...How long?"

Satoru finally answered, voice muffled against Nanami's sweater. “Give me another minute."

Nanami scratched lightly behind his ear. "Take two."

"You're the best, Ken."

Nanami laughed under his breath.

---

Later that night, Nanami found the birthday cake in the fridge with KENTO written in blue icing and three strawberries missing from the corner.

“Satoru?”

From the bedroom, a loud guilty voice followed. “I was checking if they were sweet enough for you.”

“You ate my cake.”

“I tested your cake.”

Nanami stood in the kitchen doorway with the plate in one hand.

Satoru was already sitting upright in bed, hair pointing in several directions, expression elated in a way that would have been embarrassing on any other man.

“Come here,” Nanami said.

The heavyweight champion of the world crossed the room barefoot, kissed icing from Nanami’s thumb, and looked stupidly pleased when Nanami let him have the bite.

“Can I eat your cake for real now?”

NSFW

Nanami stared at him over the plate. “Satoru.”

“That sounded judgmental.”

“Maybe it was.”

Satoru grinned stupidly and came closer. He was tall enough that Nanami had to tilt his chin and broad enough to eclipse the dresser behind him. He still smelled faintly of cake and their shampoo, hair ruined from bed. His hands settled on Nanami’s waist with the care of a man who had won matches in under a minute and still took ten years deciding where to kiss his husband first.

Nanami lifted the plate between them. “Have a piece.”

“I want the icing.”

“Use a fork.”

Nanami had gotten icing on his thumb and was bringing it to his mouth when Satoru caught his wrist, sucked the thumb between his lips, and looked up at him from under messy white lashes.

Nanami’s mouth fell open on a breath, his ears going red before he could look away.

Satoru grinned, took the plate from him, and set it on the dresser without looking away. “I have plans for the icing.”

That was how Nanami ended up spread across their bed with his tangerine shirt pushed to his ribs, shorts thrown god knows where, blond hair crushed into the pillows, and the blue-feathered robe he had worn earlier sliding off one shoulder into an expensive heap.

Satoru dragged icing over his sternum with his thumb, then lower down to his Adonis belt, so slow it made Nanami’s stomach tighten before before skin even met skin.

“Cold?” Satoru asked.

Nanami looked down at him, breath already hitching at intervals. "N-no."

Satoru bent and licked the first streak clean with his tongue.

Nanami’s fingers sank into his hair immediately. He tugged, not to stop him but to guide him where to stay. Satoru followed with tongue, teeth, and mouth dragging over sugar and skin, every kiss messier than the last until Nanami’s chest lifted for him without being asked.

“Look at you,” Satoru murmured against his pelvis. “Birthday boy in feathers, letting me eat cake off him.”

Nanami’s breathing deepened when his thigh brushed the hard line of Satoru through his sweats. “You’re hard enough to bruise me through your pants.”

“I know. It’s serious.”

Nanami’s breath hitched when Satoru licked icing off Nanami’s tip, lips swallowing around it.

"God, you’re drooling so much, Satoru.”

Satoru let go with a wet pop, spit connecting his lips to Nanami’s tip. “Pretty blondie,” he murmured against him. “Pretty husband. Pretty everything.”

Nanami laughed, then sucked in air when Satoru shifted, grabbed his hips, and dragged him lower on the mattress to bite gently at his hip, then slapped it and watched the plump skin bounce back. Then Satoru kissed down with greedy devotion, his body broad enough to cage Nanami in without trying. Nanami was braced on one elbow at first, chin lifted, mouth loud because Satoru liked it when he was.

Satoru got between his thighs, palms spreading his hips open with the same careful strength he used wrapping his hands before a fight.

Nanami’s thighs twitched under Satoru’s arms.

Satoru put icing on his tongue first, then licked over Nanami’s fluttering hole, slow enough to feel him clench before he kissed deeper, humming from the taste. The sound was so heavy it sent shivers up Nanami’s neck, making him redder when Satoru’s tongue finally prodded in.

The push of Satoru’s tongue had Nanami’s hips jerking, one knee digging into the bed, his voice snapping loose in a way Satoru felt in his own cock.

“Fuck,” Satoru said, lifting his mouth just enough to talk against him. “That sound. Give me more of that.”

The second Satoru’s tongue pushed in deeper through the tight ring of muscle again, Nanami’s elbow slipped, making his head bury into the pillows. His wet, hot tongue flicked against Nanami’s spot with the muscle memory of years together, and the next thing Nanami said came out broken, more breath than word, and Satoru made another, louder, pleased sound against him.

“There,” Satoru said, low and warm, lifting his mouth just enough to speak before biting Kento’s plump ass cheeks, still holding him open with both his thumbs. “That’s what I wanted. Let me have you, Ken.”

Nanami’s hand shook in his hair. “You’re filthy.”

“Don’t lie. It’s the best day of your life.”

He ate him out with both hands holding him open, mouth wet, greedy, and shameless. Nanami kept trying to turn and watch but kept failing. His head dropped back, knuckles white on the pillow. Every time Satoru hummed into him, Nanami’s body answered before his mouth could, thighs tightening, stomach fluttering, and breath breaking into Satoru’s name.

Satoru freed his mouth and turned Nanami over by his hips.

Nanami dragged him down by the back of his neck and kissed him hard.

By the time Satoru reached for the lube, Nanami was flushed from chest to ears, t-shirt sweaty, robe gone to the floor, one hand loosely covering his own mouth.

Satoru caught that wrist and kissed the ring. “Don’t hide from me.”

Nanami glanced at him, unfocused already.

Satoru slicked his fingers and pressed one in.

Nanami’s reply turned into a groan when Satoru curled his finger.

Satoru watched his face as he worked in the second finger, then the third, jaw tight, breathing worse every time Nanami opened for him. He was built for damage in every room except this one; here he was shaking because Nanami’s knees had parted for him and Nanami’s voice had gone soft with need.

“Tell me,” Satoru said, stroking him open. “Say it clearly while you still can.”

Nanami dragged him down by the neck. “Fuck me.”

Satoru looked grateful before he leaned down to kiss him hard, then lined up.

The head of his cock pressed in thick and heavy and already wet from precum and lube. Nanami grabbed his shoulders, mouth falling open before Satoru had even given him an inch.

“Too big,” Nanami choked out.

Satoru’s whole body answered before his mind, shoulders locking, hips stuttering once, control catching by a thread. Months of training had carved him down to discipline and hunger, early mornings in the cage, taped knuckles, ice baths, a title belt he’d brought home still undefeated. For the last few weeks, he'd spent practically every minute training or strategizing.

But none of it had prepared him for Nanami under him again, smaller by just enough to make Satoru feel obscene with it, broad where he liked him broad, and firm where Satoru wanted to bite, still taking him like his body remembered Satoru's, like coming home.

“I know, baby.” Satoru’s voice came out wrecked, almost laughing to hide the pleading under it. He pressed his forehead to Nanami’s and kissed damp skin on his nose, one hand rubbing circles into his lover's hips to help calm him. “I know. Breathe. I’ve got you. I won’t hurt you. Breathe for me. Fuck, Kento, breathe for me.”

Nanami tried. Satoru felt the attempt through his sternum below his own chest, the shiver, and the tight little pull of the ring of muscle around the head of his cock. God, Nanami’s ass was so honest, Satoru thought but didn't dare say out loud. Even when Nanami’s mouth argued, even when he made that low, annoyed sound like Satoru had offended him by being built this way, his hole kept fluttering around him, slick and hot, trying to push him out and drag him deeper in the same breath.

Satoru bit down on a groan. “Fuck, Kento. You feel that?” His thumb rubbed slow at the place Nanami’s hip flexed under his grip, careful despite the way his thighs shook with the need to stop being careful and bury himself until Nanami forgot the bed, the cake, the whole dam room. “Missed me so bad your body’s losing its mind.”

Nanami made an offended, strangled noise into Satoru’s neck and bit down hard.

“Yeah,” Satoru groaned from the pleasure and pain, hips bucking suddenly to press another inch in and going still the second Nanami tensed again. His mouth kept running anyway. “There you are. There’s my Ken-chan. Good for me, baby, so good. Still biting me while you take it. Fuck, Kento, you’re so tight I’m gonna lose my mind. Gonna come so deep for you. Bury my seed in you. Birthday present, yeah? You can complain after.” 

Nanami’s mouth fell open on the push, his hands locking around Satoru’s shoulders, nails digging into muscle. Satoru pushed deeper, and the sounds Nanami made turned shakier, forced out of him before he could swallow them. His eyes went glassy, thighs shaking around Satoru’s waist, tight at first, then worse when Satoru’s cock dragged over that familiar spot inside him, the one his body knew too well and had gone too long without.

“Kento,” Satoru breathed, wrecked with it. “Fuck, listen to you.”

Nanami went bright red from his chest to his ears and slapped a hand over Satoru’s mouth.

Satoru stopped, buried halfway.

For one second, he only stared down at him, breathing hard through his nose, eyes blown wide above Nanami’s palm. Then he kissed the inside of Nanami’s wrist, slow and obnoxiously tender, until Nanami’s hand loosened by itself.

Nanami pulled it away like he was offended his own body had betrayed him.

Satoru kissed his cheek, then his jaw, then the damp corner of his mouth. “Good. There you go. Take me.”

Nanami nodded against him, pretty and so dazed that Satoru almost lost his mind.

Satoru sank in the rest of the way.

For a second, neither of them moved. Satoru’s arms trembled beside Nanami’s head. Nanami’s hands slid down Satoru’s back, his thoughts thinning around the heat of him, around the familiar stretch his body had missed, around Satoru inside him.

Then Nanami whispered, “Move.”

Satoru pulled out until only the tip stayed inside him, then drove back in.

Nanami’s back arched off the bed.

Satoru did it again, harder, heavier, each stroke knocking another piece of speech out of him. Nanami stopped forming sentences. All he could give was Satoru’s name, then please, then a broken sound that made Satoru grin into his neck.

“God, Ken-chan, you have any idea,” Satoru panted, fucking him deep. “What you look like right now?”

The bed started giving them away, the frame knocking softly at first, then louder as Satoru lost the last of his patience.

“My husband,” Satoru groaned, almost laughing from how gone he sounded. “My spoiled Ken-chan. Birthday cake on your mouth, my ring on your hand, and still acting like you’re above begging.”

Nanami reached for him blindly.

Satoru caught his hand, kissed the ring again, and pinned it to the mattress while he fucked him harder.

---

Nanami complained after.

He did it with his face pressed into Satoru’s neck, one leg hooked around his waist.

Satoru listened very seriously, nodding into his hair and massaging Nanami’s aching hips. “Mhm. Awful. Terrible husband. Should I apologize with more cake or my mouth?”

Nanami went still.

Satoru grinned. “That’s what I thought.”

A/N: Thank you for reading!! I hope this felt like a tiny birthday treat for Nanami. Tell me which part made you smile; I’m nosy and I want to know. I’m especially wondering whether gym husband Satoru or interview husband Satoru wins.

Masterlist

Line dividers from @pixopix and engagement banners are mine.

“Did you call my assistant?”

His face did several little things before choosing confidence, which looked like a child trying to be brave. “I was just asking.”

“You asked my assistant to move my clients again.”

“I asked whether she could. There’s a difference.”

“No, there isn’t.”

He put the bread knife down. “I was trying to help.”

“You were trying to manage me.”

His mouth closed.

You slid the phone across the counter. “Read it.”

He read it. His shoulders pulled up a fraction, and his hair was falling near his nose because he had slept over, again, on the couch because you still had not given him back the right to your bed after cake and an apology and his pretty little speech on his knees.

Thin ice meant thin ice.

“I thought if I fixed the work part, you’d sleep,” he said.

“You don’t fix things by treating my work like a subscription you can cancel.”

His jaw flexed. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“You keep saying that.”

His eyes lifted.

You laughed, because if you didn’t, your throat would start doing that humiliating thing again. “My clients aren’t some cute obstacle between you and cuddling. They’re contracts. They’re my rent. They’re my staff getting paid. They’re my reputation. You helped damage that, Satoru, and now you want to buy your way out of feeling guilty.”

“That’s unfair.”

“So was me having to text you first.”

His hand fell from the counter.

You kept going because the words were already out, and if you stopped now, you would apologize. “You left. Fine. We fought, you were hurt, I was hurt. You gave the key back. Fine. But three days, Satoru? Three days, and I had to be the one to say come home?”

His mouth parted, then shut.

“You let me sit there feeling guilty for finally saying what hurt me. You let me wonder if I pushed too hard. If I was mean. If I should’ve swallowed it again because you got that look on your face and left.”

“I came back,” he said, voice lower.

“After I asked.”

His eyes flicked down to the counter.

You hated how badly you wanted him to deny it.

Satoru rubbed both hands over his face, then shoved his fingers into his hair. “I came back to your building twice before you called.”

You stared.

“The first night, I made it to the lobby. Flowers in my hand, by the way. I stood by the mailboxes for twenty minutes before your neighbors shooed me away. The security camera points right at that corner, so you can check if you don’t believe me. Every time the elevator opened, I thought, if she sees me here, I’m doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Making you take care of me.” His laugh came out loud, almost startling you. “I knew if I knocked, I’d beg. I’d say the right thing and look pathetic, and then you’d soften because you do that. You get mad and then you start checking if I’m fine.”

You swallowed.

He looked at you then, stripped of deflection. “You said I moved myself in. You were right. Then after the fight, I thought staying away was the right thing I could give you.”

Your voice came out low, almost a whisper. “So you made me ask.”

His face softened.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I did.”

Your eyes burned, and you hated him for making you cry in your own kitchen. “That was cruel.”

“I know.”

“You should’ve knocked. You should’ve said sorry through the door. You should’ve sent the flowers with Reina. You should’ve done anything except make me drag you back after the only time I tried to tell you what wasn't working.”

A tiny, bruised smile tried to appear on his stupid face. “I did carry the flowers around, but they dried in my car.”

“Satoru.”

He nodded, smile gone. “I’m sorry. For that too.”

You wiped under your eye with the heel of your palm. “Call Reina.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Speaker.”

He obeyed fast enough to prove he could when he wanted to. Reina answered on the third ring, sounding polite in the way people did when they were looking to commit murder on company time.

“Hai, Gojo-san. What can I do for you?”

“Hai, Reina. Please ignore the schedule thing. Your boss is in charge of her calendar. I’m a rich idiot with boundary problems.”

A pause came that lasted too long.

You covered your mouth.

Then Reina cleared her throat. “Would you like me to write that down?”

Satoru shut his eyes. “I feel you already have.”

“I have.”

“Great. Please add that if she wants help, she’ll tell me in words, because I’m trainable.”

“That part may be too optimistic, Gojo-san.”

You couldn't hide your laugh in your palm.

Satoru looked wounded.

“Goodbye, Gojo-san.”

The call ended.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then he pushed the pudding plate toward you, this time with a spoon. “You ate breakfast?”

“No.”

His face changed.

You lifted one finger to his face. “Do not start.”

His mouth pressed tight. He grabbed his phone instead and typed. “What are you doing?”

“Ordering food. Asking first would be growth, so can I order breakfast?”

You hated that it worked on you, but only because you were actually hungry for real food and not just desserts. “Yes.”

His shoulders loosened.

“And,” you added before he could start celebrating, “I want to meet someone from your life.”

He stared at you with an unreadable expression.

“One person. This week.”

His fingers twitched over the screen.

You braced for the joke.

“Shoko,” he finally said after a few seconds of thinking.

“The doctor?”

“Yeah, she’s my oldest friend.”

“Only her?”

“For now.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Why only her?”

“Because Shoko knows the bad parts and won’t use you to get to me. Also, because she’s the hardest to get to because she stays away from the real world or the fights—safe at Jujutsu Tech—it's unlikely for anyone to use her to get to you. And if Shoko dies, I’m dead, the higher-ups are eating each other, and jujutsu society is already well into the ground.”

“That is… not comforting.”

“It’s the truth.”

“What about your students?”

“No, they look very adoptable. But that’s beside the point. One of them is a demonic vessel.”

“What about Nanami?”

“Absolutely not.”

You blinked back. “That was very fast. Why?”

“He asks women if they’ve eaten.” Satoru pointed the spoon at you. “You are vulnerable to that kind of behavior.”

“Why because you starved me emotionally?”

His face fell. “I’m sorry.”

“And physically, sometimes.” You smiled chidingly.

He looked away, lips almost pouting. “I’m ordering breakfast.”

“Why because Nanami might steal your girl?”

“He owns beige suits, a retirement plan, and is vulnerable to running away. Of course he might steal my girl. I’m annoying and explosive.”

You looked at him for a long second.

He looked back, serious and waiting.

“Shoko,” you finally said.

“Shoko,” he agreed. “I’ll ask her today.”

Two nights later, you met Ieiri Shoko at a molecular bar in Chuo-ku, Tokyo.

Shoko looked from you to Satoru, then back again. “Huh.”

Satoru frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means huh.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh.

He turned to you. “Don’t bond with her over this.”

“I haven’t even said anything yet,” you shrugged.

“You smiled.”

Shoko opened the menu. “Relax. I’m sure she’ll recover.”

After that, Satoru kept placing himself between you and Shoko like he was enforcing the assigned seating.

Shoko accepted the tiny dish the chef set down in front of her, glanced at you, then said, “So you’re the one who made him this annoying.”

You glanced back. “Was he better before?”

“No. Just less moist.” Unbeknownst to you, after fighting with you Shoko had caught him crying one too many times.

Satoru made a strangled sound. “I brought you here to support me.”

“I’m supporting.”

You laughed, and Shoko’s mouth barely moved around the drink she was sipping from.

Then she leaned a little closer to be heard over the chef explaining something with smoke curling off a black plate. “You have nice legs.”

You looked down at them, confused. “Oh.”

“You workout a lot?”

Satoru’s head turned slowly. “Shoko.”

To anyone else, Shoko still looked bored. To you, she looked like a tired doctor making conversation. To Satoru, she had just used the same flat voice she used on Utahime before offering a “routine mammogram” that Jujutsu Tech did not provide.

“What?” she asked.

“Don’t what me.”

You looked between them. “Did I miss something?”

“No,” Shoko answered, at the exact same time Satoru did, “Yes.”

“I complimented her.” She smiled mildly at you.

“You never compliment anyone.” He grumbled.

Shoko took another sip from her drink. “Maybe because you don’t bring me pretty women.”

Your mouth twitched before you could stop it.

Satoru stared at you. “Do not encourage her.”

After that, she told you what she could about Satoru—teacher, sorcerer, clan garbage, dangerous work, bad hours, and injuries that looked worse than he’d admit. Names she could give, names she couldn’t yet. She didn’t sugarcoat anything or turn him into some tragic prince. She said he was irritating, loyal, reckless with himself, and miserable when lonely.

Satoru kept rearranging the tiny spoon beside his plate and let her talk.

That made your chest hurt.

She looked at you again. “I never knew about you two days ago. And now he won't shut up about you.”

Satoru reached for your hand under the counter.

You smiled. “Good things hopefully?”

Shoko shrugged. “Something like that.”

Satoru squeezed your fingers. “Let’s leave after dessert.”

When Shoko went to pay, Satoru tried to slap his card down first.

Shoko watched him do it, then watched him give you his jacket, and smiled around her drink.

On the walk home, Satoru carried your leftovers, your bag, and the convenience store drink he had bought after asking if you wanted one.

At his door, he stopped before unlocking it.

You watched him look at the key in his hand, then at you, like the metal had suddenly become heavier.

Then he pulled another one from his pocket and placed it in your palm.

You looked down at it. “To your place?”

He nodded, throat moving. “Yeah.”

Your eyes softened.

Then he bent and kissed you, hands careful around your face. He was trying again without making you answer out loud.

When he lifted his head, his mouth brushed yours as he said, “Nanami still isn’t invited.”

You closed your fingers around the key. “We’ll see.”

His face dropped. “That means no.”

“It means feed me before I remember he exists.”

Within the next breath Satoru unlocked the door, kicked off his shoes, and ran to the kitchen.

Later, in his bed, he had one hand spread over your stomach.

“When I told you about the school,” he murmured, mouth brushing your jaw. “Couldn’t know about this.”

Your knees were on either side of his hips, thighs trembling, but you weren’t the one moving. You couldn’t. The invisible pressure under you was lifting you slowly, then bringing you back down onto his cock until your fingers dug into his back without letting you have him.

Fullness came with the warmth stripped out. Hard pressure pressed deep, shaped like him deep inside your pussy, holding you open while Infinity kept his skin a cruel breath away. Your body kept reaching for what wasn’t there, for his body heat, for slick friction from his precum, or any living give of his cock when you clenched around him. All you got was the space his technique controlled, thin and merciless, filling you without letting you have him until your hips twitched from wanting the real thing.

“Satoru—”

“I know, baby.” His voice had gone low in a way you had never heard from him before, all that stupid sweetness turned into something rougher. “I know. Let me do the work tonight.”

You tried to tell him that wasn't what you were trying to say, but the sound came out broken.

“Shush,” His thumb caught the fresh tears sliding down your cheek. “Look at you. Crying because I’m finally giving you what you need.”

You sobbed out something that might have been his name.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered huskily. “For making you ask and letting you get tired, thinking being wanted meant I could just take.”

The force under your hips changed, small and mean, and your whole body jerked.

He kissed the corner of your mouth. “My smart girl can’t even scold me now, huh.”

“S’too much. Wanna f-feel you.”

“I know.” His arms came around you, warm and solid under all that impossible power. “You can take it just a little bit more. I’ll take care of you. Wanted to do this for a long time.”

You cried into his neck as his infinity bounced you on his cock in careful and merciless rolls while he praised you until the barrier finally thinned and the first real touch of his tip against your cervix made you immediately cum.

A/N: Thoughts?

Part 1 | Masterlist

“Did you call my assistant?”

His face did several little things before choosing confidence, which looked like a child trying to be brave. “I was just asking.”

“You asked my assistant to move my clients again.”

“I asked whether she could. There’s a difference.”

“No, there isn’t.”

He put the bread knife down. “I was trying to help.”

“You were trying to manage me.”

His mouth closed.

You slid the phone across the counter. “Read it.”

He read it. His shoulders pulled up a fraction, and his hair was falling near his nose because he had slept over, again, on the couch because you still had not given him back the right to your bed after cake and an apology and his pretty little speech on his knees.

Thin ice meant thin ice.

“I thought if I fixed the work part, you’d sleep,” he said.

“You don’t fix things by treating my work like a subscription you can cancel.”

His jaw flexed. “That isn’t what I meant.”

“You keep saying that.”

His eyes lifted.

You laughed, because if you didn’t, your throat would start doing that humiliating thing again. “My clients aren’t some cute obstacle between you and cuddling. They’re contracts. They’re my rent. They’re my staff getting paid. They’re my reputation. You helped damage that, Satoru, and now you want to buy your way out of feeling guilty.”

“That’s unfair.”

“So was me having to text you first.”

His hand fell from the counter.

You kept going because the words were already out, and if you stopped now, you would apologize. “You left. Fine. We fought, you were hurt, I was hurt. You gave the key back. Fine. But three days, Satoru? Three days, and I had to be the one to say come home?”

His mouth parted, then shut.

“You let me sit there feeling guilty for finally saying what hurt me. You let me wonder if I pushed too hard. If I was mean. If I should’ve swallowed it again because you got that look on your face and left.”

“I came back,” he said, voice lower.

“After I asked.”

His eyes flicked down to the counter.

You hated how badly you wanted him to deny it.

Satoru rubbed both hands over his face, then shoved his fingers into his hair. “I came back to your building twice before you called.”

You stared.

“The first night, I made it to the lobby. Flowers in my hand, by the way. I stood by the mailboxes for twenty minutes before your neighbors shooed me away. The security camera points right at that corner, so you can check if you don’t believe me. Every time the elevator opened, I thought, if she sees me here, I’m doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Making you take care of me.” His laugh came out loud, almost startling you. “I knew if I knocked, I’d beg. I’d say the right thing and look pathetic, and then you’d soften because you do that. You get mad and then you start checking if I’m fine.”

You swallowed.

He looked at you then, stripped of deflection. “You said I moved myself in. You were right. Then after the fight, I thought staying away was the right thing I could give you.”

Your voice came out low, almost a whisper. “So you made me ask.”

His face softened.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I did.”

Your eyes burned, and you hated him for making you cry in your own kitchen. “That was cruel.”

“I know.”

“You should’ve knocked. You should’ve said sorry through the door. You should’ve sent the flowers with Reina. You should’ve done anything except make me drag you back after the only time I tried to tell you what wasn't working.”

A tiny, bruised smile tried to appear on his stupid face. “I did carry the flowers around, but they dried in my car.”

“Satoru.”

He nodded, smile gone. “I’m sorry. For that too.”

You wiped under your eye with the heel of your palm. “Call Reina.”

“Now?”

“Yes. Speaker.”

He obeyed fast enough to prove he could when he wanted to. Reina answered on the third ring, sounding polite in the way people did when they were looking to commit murder on company time.

“Hai, Gojo-san. What can I do for you?”

“Hai, Reina. Please ignore the schedule thing. Your boss is in charge of her calendar. I’m a rich idiot with boundary problems.”

A pause came that lasted too long.

You covered your mouth.

Then Reina cleared her throat. “Would you like me to write that down?”

Satoru shut his eyes. “I feel you already have.”

“I have.”

“Great. Please add that if she wants help, she’ll tell me in words, because I’m trainable.”

“That part may be too optimistic, Gojo-san.”

You couldn't hide your laugh in your palm.

Satoru looked wounded.

“Goodbye, Gojo-san.”

The call ended.

For a second, neither of you spoke.

Then he pushed the pudding plate toward you, this time with a spoon. “You ate breakfast?”

“No.”

His face changed.

You lifted one finger to his face. “Do not start.”

His mouth pressed tight. He grabbed his phone instead and typed. “What are you doing?”

“Ordering food. Asking first would be growth, so can I order breakfast?”

You hated that it worked on you, but only because you were actually hungry for real food and not just desserts. “Yes.”

His shoulders loosened.

“And,” you added before he could start celebrating, “I want to meet someone from your life.”

He stared at you with an unreadable expression.

“One person. This week.”

His fingers twitched over the screen.

You braced for the joke.

“Shoko,” he finally said after a few seconds of thinking.

“The doctor?”

“Yeah, she’s my oldest friend.”

“Only her?”

“For now.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Why only her?”

“Because Shoko knows the bad parts and won’t use you to get to me. Also, because she’s the hardest to get to because she stays away from the real world or the fights—safe at Jujutsu Tech—it's unlikely for anyone to use her to get to you. And if Shoko dies, I’m dead, the higher-ups are eating each other, and jujutsu society is already well into the ground.”

“That is… not comforting.”

“It’s the truth.”

“What about your students?”

“No, they look very adoptable. But that’s beside the point. One of them is a demonic vessel.”

“What about Nanami?”

“Absolutely not.”

You blinked back. “That was very fast. Why?”

“He asks women if they’ve eaten.” Satoru pointed the spoon at you. “You are vulnerable to that kind of behavior.”

“Why because you starved me emotionally?”

His face fell. “I’m sorry.”

“And physically, sometimes.” You smiled chidingly.

He looked away, lips almost pouting. “I’m ordering breakfast.”

“Why because Nanami might steal your girl?”

“He owns beige suits, a retirement plan, and is vulnerable to running away. Of course he might steal my girl. I’m annoying and explosive.”

You looked at him for a long second.

He looked back, serious and waiting.

“Shoko,” you finally said.

“Shoko,” he agreed. “I’ll ask her today.”

Two nights later, you met Ieiri Shoko at a molecular bar in Chuo-ku, Tokyo.

Shoko looked from you to Satoru, then back again. “Huh.”

Satoru frowned. “What does that mean?”

“It means huh.”

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh.

He turned to you. “Don’t bond with her over this.”

“I haven’t even said anything yet,” you shrugged.

“You smiled.”

Shoko opened the menu. “Relax. I’m sure she’ll recover.”

After that, Satoru kept placing himself between you and Shoko like he was enforcing the assigned seating.

Shoko accepted the tiny dish the chef set down in front of her, glanced at you, then said, “So you’re the one who made him this annoying.”

You glanced back. “Was he better before?”

“No. Just less moist.” Unbeknownst to you, after fighting with you Shoko had caught him crying one too many times.

Satoru made a strangled sound. “I brought you here to support me.”

“I’m supporting.”

You laughed, and Shoko’s mouth barely moved around the drink she was sipping from.

Then she leaned a little closer to be heard over the chef explaining something with smoke curling off a black plate. “You have nice legs.”

You looked down at them, confused. “Oh.”

“You workout a lot?”

Satoru’s head turned slowly. “Shoko.”

To anyone else, Shoko still looked bored. To you, she looked like a tired doctor making conversation. To Satoru, she had just used the same flat voice she used on Utahime before offering a “routine mammogram” that Jujutsu Tech did not provide.

“What?” she asked.

“Don’t what me.”

You looked between them. “Did I miss something?”

“No,” Shoko answered, at the exact same time Satoru did, “Yes.”

“I complimented her.” She smiled mildly at you.

“You never compliment anyone.” He grumbled.

Shoko took another sip from her drink. “Maybe because you don’t bring me pretty women.”

Your mouth twitched before you could stop it.

Satoru stared at you. “Do not encourage her.”

After that, she told you what she could about Satoru—teacher, sorcerer, clan garbage, dangerous work, bad hours, and injuries that looked worse than he’d admit. Names she could give, names she couldn’t yet. She didn’t sugarcoat anything or turn him into some tragic prince. She said he was irritating, loyal, reckless with himself, and miserable when lonely.

Satoru kept rearranging the tiny spoon beside his plate and let her talk.

That made your chest hurt.

She looked at you again. “I never knew about you two days ago. And now he won't shut up about you.”

Satoru reached for your hand under the counter.

You smiled. “Good things hopefully?”

Shoko shrugged. “Something like that.”

Satoru squeezed your fingers. “Let’s leave after dessert.”

When Shoko went to pay, Satoru tried to slap his card down first.

Shoko watched him do it, then watched him give you his jacket, and smiled around her drink.

On the walk home, Satoru carried your leftovers, your bag, and the convenience store drink he had bought after asking if you wanted one.

At his door, he stopped before unlocking it.

You watched him look at the key in his hand, then at you, like the metal had suddenly become heavier.

Then he pulled another one from his pocket and placed it in your palm.

You looked down at it. “To your place?”

He nodded, throat moving. “Yeah.”

Your eyes softened.

Then he bent and kissed you, hands careful around your face. He was trying again without making you answer out loud.

When he lifted his head, his mouth brushed yours as he said, “Nanami still isn’t invited.”

You closed your fingers around the key. “We’ll see.”

His face dropped. “That means no.”

“It means feed me before I remember he exists.”

Within the next breath Satoru unlocked the door, kicked off his shoes, and ran to the kitchen.

Later, in his bed, he had one hand spread over your stomach.

“When I told you about the school,” he murmured, mouth brushing your jaw. “Couldn’t know about this.”

Your knees were on either side of his hips, thighs trembling, but you weren’t the one moving. You couldn’t. The invisible pressure under you was lifting you slowly, then bringing you back down onto his cock until your fingers dug into his back without letting you have him.

Fullness came with the warmth stripped out. Hard pressure pressed deep, shaped like him deep inside your pussy, holding you open while Infinity kept his skin a cruel breath away. Your body kept reaching for what wasn’t there, for his body heat, for slick friction from his precum, or any living give of his cock when you clenched around him. All you got was the space his technique controlled, thin and merciless, filling you without letting you have him until your hips twitched from wanting the real thing.

“Satoru—”

“I know, baby.” His voice had gone low in a way you had never heard from him before, all that stupid sweetness turned into something rougher. “I know. Let me do the work tonight.”

You tried to tell him that wasn't what you were trying to say, but the sound came out broken.

“Shush,” His thumb caught the fresh tears sliding down your cheek. “Look at you. Crying because I’m finally giving you what you need.”

You sobbed out something that might have been his name.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered huskily. “For making you ask and letting you get tired, thinking being wanted meant I could just take.”

The force under your hips changed, small and mean, and your whole body jerked.

He kissed the corner of your mouth. “My smart girl can’t even scold me now, huh.”

“S’too much. Wanna f-feel you.”

“I know.” His arms came around you, warm and solid under all that impossible power. “You can take it just a little bit more. I’ll take care of you. Wanted to do this for a long time.”

You cried into his neck as his infinity bounced you on his cock in careful and merciless rolls while he praised you until the barrier finally thinned and the first real touch of his tip against your cervix made you immediately cum.

A/N: Thoughts?

Part 1 | Masterlist

Her silhouette sat curled near the balcony door, back to the room, cheek pressed against her knees, hands dug into the sleeves of her oversized shirt. The city’s failing neon lights flickered across her hair in slow, uneven rhythms. She looked like someone waiting for a disaster she’d already lived through twenty times over.

Nanami loosened his tie. He’d learned long ago to be quieter, because anything louder made her flinch.

He slipped off his glasses and stepped closer, each movement measured and predictable, a choreography he had perfected not because he was a romantic but because he genuinely saw her with the kind of patience born out of loving someone who didn’t know how to be safe around anyone. Even him on rare occasions.

Today, she didn’t look up when he entered the room.

Her breathing was shallow and far too controlled, the way people breathed when they were holding back the edges of panic. Or when they were trying to look “normal” for someone else’s peace of mind. Her shoulders were stiff and rigid, masking, he realized, not for him specifically, but out of habit, as if she didn't know there was another option.

He sat on the floor beside her, not touching.

Because touch, he’d learned, could feel like a hurricane to a nervous system already fighting the world.

So he waited.

It took her a full minute before she whispered, “I think something’s wrong with me.”

Nanami closed his eyes for a moment, just a moment, because the sound of her voice like that, raw and cracking, sliced him in a way curses never could.

When he opened them again, his face was steady. “What happened?”

She shrugged, small and tired. “Everything. My entire life. Every relationship. Every job. Every… meltdown. I thought it was my upbringing or my trauma. Maybe it’s still trauma. But maybe it’s,”

She stopped. Words tangled. The way they did when emotions became heavier than language.

Nanami didn’t finish her sentence for her. She hated that, people assuming her thoughts. People summarizing her feelings like she hadn’t spent years struggling to articulate them in the first place.

She took a breath so sharp it sounded like pain. “I think I might be neurodivergent. Like… autistic.” She laughed once, brittle. “At this age. Suddenly the universe pulls a plot twist, and I’m the joke.”

He watched the tremor moving through her shoulders. “You’re not a joke.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Nanami said simply. But there was conviction in his tone, as if the idea was as absurd to him as pigs flying.

She looked away, embarrassed. He could see it, that instinctive recoil, the reflex to shrink, the regret of speaking at all, the fear that she’d overshared, said something stupid, or opened a vulnerability she couldn’t close, and the bracing for judgment that never came. Years of being punished for emotions had carved those reflexes deep into her. Even crying in front of others was treated like an offense. So she learned to save it for the nights when she could bury her face in a pillow and choke down the sound before the misery swallowed her whole.

Nanami knew. Of course he knew. The first time he tried to comfort her, she reacted like she’d been struck, stunned and defensive, then vanished from his orbit for three weeks. He realized then that she might never feel safe enough to hand him all the sharp, broken pieces of herself; too many people had taught her that trust was a trap.

So he didn’t push. He just stayed close enough for her to reach if she ever decided to.

She pulled inward, shoulders tight. “Only predators ever noticed something was off. No one else.”

Nanami’s jaw tightened. He didn’t need details. He carried enough fury in his ribs to destroy the world twice over if it meant she never had to say anything aloud that she didn’t want to.

Instead, he asked, vulnerable only with her, voice lowered like he was setting down a weapon, “When did it start feeling like this?”

She paused, then exhaled like the answer had been waiting behind her teeth for years. “Always? I think? I never liked when people stood too close to me. I stopped speaking when someone interrupted me. I walked in empty places for hours, alone. Pattern recognition and being alone were the only things that calmed me. Well, water calmed me the most, but I didn’t grow up near anything big enough to drown my thoughts.”

He listened without blinking, shoulders tightening the longer she went on. Not uncomfortable. Protective.

She continued, voice wandering because it needed to. “My family took me on a trip once, and I saw the ocean for the first time. It scared me and calmed me in a way my brain wasn’t designed for. Ten-year-old me just stood there staring at the waves for hours. And for the first time in my life, everything went quiet.” She gave a small, self-deprecating snort, shaking herself back to the present. “Sorry, I’m getting off topic. My point is… people never felt safe or calming until I met you. You made me realize men could be predictable. And safe. Too safe, sometimes.”

Nanami’s jaw flexed, barely, but it was the kind of movement that came from someone swallowing something sharp. Her words hit him like impact, not flattery.

She sank further into herself. “I thought I was dramatic. Or broken. Or stupid. Like I was faking my emotions even when I was crying. Faking my intelligence. Faking my love for superheroes because the girls where I grew up weren’t like me. They didn’t like games. They didn’t like me, no matter how polite or kind I was.”

He didn’t interrupt. He looked like he wanted to, but he didn’t. His hand curled once against his knee before he forced it still; restraint felt too hard for him. Overrated, in fact. But he held on to it anyway because she needed him to.

“You are none of those things,” he said, quiet but unwavering.

Her breath trembled again. “I don’t get jokes half the time. I say weird stuff. People leave. Or they take advantage. And I never know why.”

Nanami finally shifted, just enough to tilt his body toward her in a way that wasn’t aggressive, just deliberate. The kind of move meant to counter the weight she was carrying without touching it yet. “You survived by studying people instead of trusting them. You learned to mask everything because you had no other choice. Anyone would misinterpret you when you’re only showing the version that keeps you safe.”

Her eyes flickered, hope, doubt, fear crowding each other. “So you think I’m right?”

He hesitated for the first time, not because he disagreed, but because he hated that she had to ask.

“I think,” he said slowly, “you’ve been fighting battles alone that you never should’ve been left to face. And now you’re finally finding language for the way your mind works.”

He exhaled, a quiet, controlled thing that still betrayed him. “That isn’t being dramatic. That’s clarity. And you deserved it years ago.”

She swallowed, throat tight, and whispered, “Why didn’t anyone else notice?”

Nanami breathed out slowly.

He wanted to tell her the truth:

People rarely notice what isn’t convenient for them.

They only notice things that benefit them: the girls who comply, the girls who over-give, the girls who hurt quietly, the girls who never protest until it’s too late. People who are hyper-literal, hyper-empathic, and exhausted from performing “normal” are the easiest to ignore.

But Nanami Kento wasn’t a man cruel enough to give her the world’s cruelty. 

Instead, he gave her what she needed:

“Because no one ever looked closely enough,” he said. “Except the ones who wanted to use you.”

He watched her face crumple, not fully or even dramatically, but in the small, sharp way people break when they hear a truth they already suspected.

Then he added something else, not just because he loved her and that made him biased but because she didn’t deserve the things that weren’t her fault.

“You’re not difficult. People just weren’t gentle.”

Her breath caught.

He let the silence stretch; she was finally letting him witness her edges when tears came faster than she could wipe them.

“You always notice,” she murmured finally, voice small. “Why?”

Nanami glanced at her hands, clenched, nails digging in, then back to her face, where she was avoiding his eyes out of habit. Not fear. Just… overwhelmed.

“Because I pay attention,” he said. “To you. To the way your eyes get glossy when you’re overstimulated. To how you study social cues before responding. To how you regret past conversations in your head without realizing it. To how you tuck yourself into silent smiles when you’re afraid you’ll say something strange.”

Her breath trembled. “That’s embarrassing.”

“It’s human,” he corrected. “And it’s you.”

She hugged her knees tighter. “I hate being me sometimes.”

Nanami leaned back against the wall, gazing at her with the kind of tenderness that didn’t soften him but deepened him, like gravity, quiet and relentless.

“You lived through decades of misunderstanding yourself,” he said, softer still. “Of course you’re tired.”

Her lips pressed together. “Do you think I’m too much?”

“No.”

“Too broken?”

“No.”

She looked at him then, eyes wet but focused, trying to read him, trying to understand why he wasn’t pulling away the way people always did when the mask slipped.

“Then what am I?” she whispered.

Nanami didn’t move closer, didn’t touch her, and didn’t make any sudden gesture that could overload her system. He just spoke with the calm certainty she loved him all the more for.

“You’re someone whose brain was built for depth, not speed. For intensity, not superficiality. For survival, not performance.”

Her face wavered. “Sounds like a curse.”

“It’s a strength.” His voice was steady as water flowing over small stones. “But you were never taught how to use it without bleeding yourself dry.”

She let out a breath that sounded like an entire childhood unraveling.

Nanami continued, more quietly this time. “You make sense to me.”

Her throat worked. “Even when I don’t make sense to myself?”

“Especially then.”

She stared, not scared. Never that with him, but startled, as if the idea of being understood without performing was foreign.

“Why do you… stay?”

Nanami almost smiled, not a soft smile, but a tired one, the kind that came when someone finally admitted to a wound they’d been hiding too long.

“I didn’t marry a performance. I married a person.”

Her breath hitched; her tears were flowing freely now. “But what if I get worse? What if I shut down again? What if you get tired of handling me?”

Nanami looked at her the way a lighthouse might look at a ship returning in a storm: slow, deliberate, and immovable.

“You are not something to be “handled,” and I won’t get tired,” he smiled a little more. “I get frustrated at the world, not at you.”

“But I’m messy,” she whispered. “And inconsistent. And intense. And sometimes even a little hypocrite. I get overwhelmed. I panic. I…”

“You’re human,” he interrupted gently. “And you’re learning who you are as an adult. That takes courage most people will never have.”

Her shoulders loosened enough that he could see the armor cracking.

Nanami waited a few beats, then held out his hand, not touching her, just offering.

She stared at it like it was a foreign object.

Touch wasn’t something she handled on command.

But after a long second, she slowly placed her fingers into his palm, light, trembling, and hesitant.

Nanami held her hand with the gentleness of someone who knew that too much kindness could feel like violence to a raw nervous system.

“You’re safe,” he said eventually.

She exhaled long and shakily, as if the safety was something her body didn’t know how to hold yet.

He shifted closer, just an inch, until their shoulders nearly brushed.

“This isn’t a flaw,” he said. “It’s a framework. And once you understand it, you’ll stop blaming yourself for surviving.”

She stared at their hands, fingers already intertwined like muscle memory, voice breaking. “It feels like I wasted so many years.”

Nanami’s tone softened in a way only she ever heard. “You didn’t waste anything. You endured things most people can’t comprehend. That’s not waste; that’s your resilience.”

Her eyes filled again, but this time the tears didn’t fall. They hung there, shimmering.

Nanami leaned his head back against the wall, voice lower now. “You’re not alone in this.”

“Even if it takes years to fix myself?” She whispered, resting her head on his shoulder.

His fingertips brushed her knuckles, barely there, like he was afraid of startling her. “You’re not something to fix.”

She swallowed. “Then?”

He turned toward her, meeting her gaze without a flicker of doubt.

“You're mine. And worth putting in the effort to understand.”

Something in her chest cracked, not beautifully or even neatly like the movies talked about. Just the brittle edge of someone realizing she didn’t have to hold the entire world by herself.

She exhaled, slow and uneven.

Nanami didn’t rush to fill the silence. That wasn’t him.

He just stayed beside her like a quiet pillar planted in the middle of a chaotic city, and his presence alone was enough to pull the air back into her lungs.

And for the first time in longer than she cared to admit, she breathed like someone who wasn’t in the middle of drowning.

Not healed or whole or even something to fix… just understood.

And for Nanami, that was the start of something real.

He let the moment settle, then exhaled through his nose, practicality returning like muscle memory. “You haven’t eaten.”

She made a face, burrowing deeper in his chest. “I forgot.”

“I noticed.” His voice stayed soft, but a faint dry edge slipped in as his arm slid around her back, rubbing slow circles. “Do you want something delivered? Preferably before Gojo realizes I’m off-duty and attempts to involve me in whatever disaster he’s cultivating.”

She huffed into his shoulder. “He’s definitely blowing something up.”

“Or Yuji is,” he sighed. “Gojo is only supervising the explosion.”

She shifted then, slowly, exhausted, and instinctively climbed into his lap, arms looping around his shoulders as she tucked her face against his neck. “Can we get fries? Like… irresponsible amounts.”

Nanami let out one low chuckle, already reaching for his phone with his free hand. “Of course. Enough for you, and enough for me to pretend I didn’t also want fries.”

A laugh slipped out of her, thin and uneven, tangled with the remnants of crying, but undeniably real.

He didn’t mention it. He simply placed the order one-handed, the other moving in quiet, rhythmic circles along her back, more grounding than comforting.

When he finally set his phone down, he rested his head against hers, the contact light but intentional. Close enough for her to reach for him again if she chose.

She did when he asked if she wanted to move to a city near the sea.

A/N: You'd make sense to him.

Masterlist