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Still Jealous but Soft!Gojo Satoru x Reader (ft. Shoko flirting)
Summary: Satoru tries to “fix” your exhaustion with money, gets put back on thin ice, introduces you to Shoko, gives you a key to his place, and learns that taking care of you means doing the work before you have to ask.
Or, a continuation of "He's been ignoring your needs." It can be read as a standalone, but it'll land better emotionally if you read the last fic first.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, apology sex, Dom/Sub undertones, overstimulation, inappropriate use of Infinity during sex, some crying during sex, boundary conflict, work stress, relationship imbalance, jealousy, Satoru being controlling while trying to help, brief mention of Jujutsu Tech danger/clan politics.
A/N: Got this request from KoshuEchi's comment on the last part of this fic. The section about Mamaogrram was inspired by TheVillagerandtheSea's A Miscommunication. WC: 2.3k
Part 1
Part 2
After a whole day of explaining just enough about his cultish school to not make your head explode, Satoru was trying to cut mango pudding with a bread knife.
You watched the knife sink through soft custard, watched him frown at it with the deep offense of a man who couldn’t locate a spoon.
Then your phone buzzed.
From: Reina
Gojo-san called. He asked if I should clear Thursday afternoon for “mandatory rest” and said he would cover any client penalties. Please advise.
Your hand went still around your fork.
Across the counter, Satoru looked up with pudding on his thumb. “What?”
“Satoru.”
He winced. “Whatever it is, I didn't do it.”
“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
Header images are from Pinterest, and the dividers are from @saradika-graphics.
Summary: Gojo Satoru is the heavyweight champion of the world, but every fight night, interview, and training session ends the same way: with him looking for Nanami. Nanami used to think he was Gojo’s biggest fan—he was wrong.
Title from "Video Game" by Lana Del Rey.
Inspired by a "boxer Gojo/his husband/fan Nanamin" fanart from @toffeesbox on X.
Notes: established married relationship, explicit birthday sex (you can skip it after the marker), food play with icing, body worship, dirty talk, praise kink, oral sex, spit/wet mouth descriptions, biting, brief hip slap/light impact, rimming/anilingus, light D/s undertones, guided submission, anal fingering, lube, verbal consent before penetration, anal sex, size/stretch focus, light pinning, no condom mentioned, ring kissing/possessive husband behavior, messy romantic smut. WC: 2.5k.
A/N: Ahh, I haven’t written my comfort ship in so long. Nanami might be a little softer here, only because this isn’t canon-stressed Nanami but a loved one & even spoiled a little. He's allowed to be happy. Hakari and Kirara were a big inspiration for the dynamic. Hope you guys enjoy Yearner Satoru, and thank you to the original artist for the cute idea. Happy Birthday, Satoru's wife (& our secret soulmate husband)!!!
Separate Nanami x Reader Birthday Fic - Tomorrow
It's you, it's you, it's all for you
The first time Nanami saw Satoru fight in person, he had a split lip, one eye already swelling shut, and a worrying amount of blood on his shorts.
Satoru still smiled into the camera afterward because somebody in the front row had held up a handmade sign that read, “GOJO-SAN PLEASE MARRY ME!!!”
Satoru had seen it and then seen the blond guy holding it.
Five years later, Satoru was legally allowed to call him "baby" across their apartment.
Nanami looked up from the couch where he was folding laundry. "Hm?"
"Where's my mouthguard?"
"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.
Still Jealous but Soft!Gojo Satoru x Reader (ft. Shoko flirting)
Summary: Satoru tries to “fix” your exhaustion with money, gets put back on thin ice, introduces you to Shoko, gives you a key to his place, and learns that taking care of you means doing the work before you have to ask.
Or, a continuation of "He's been ignoring your needs." It can be read as a standalone, but it'll land better emotionally if you read the last fic first.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, apology sex, Dom/Sub undertones, overstimulation, inappropriate use of Infinity during sex, some crying during sex, boundary conflict, work stress, relationship imbalance, jealousy, Satoru being controlling while trying to help, brief mention of Jujutsu Tech danger/clan politics.
A/N: Got this request from KoshuEchi's comment on the last part of this fic. The section about Mamaogrram was inspired by TheVillagerandtheSea's A Miscommunication. WC: 2.3k
Part 1
Part 2
After a whole day of explaining just enough about his cultish school to not make your head explode, Satoru was trying to cut mango pudding with a bread knife.
You watched the knife sink through soft custard, watched him frown at it with the deep offense of a man who couldn’t locate a spoon.
Then your phone buzzed.
From: Reina
Gojo-san called. He asked if I should clear Thursday afternoon for “mandatory rest” and said he would cover any client penalties. Please advise.
Your hand went still around your fork.
Across the counter, Satoru looked up with pudding on his thumb. “What?”
“Satoru.”
He winced. “Whatever it is, I didn't do it.”
“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
Header images are from Pinterest, and the dividers are from @saradika-graphics.
Summary: Gojo Satoru is the heavyweight champion of the world, but every fight night, interview, and training session ends the same way: with him looking for Nanami. Nanami used to think he was Gojo’s biggest fan—he was wrong.
Title from "Video Game" by Lana Del Rey.
Inspired by a "boxer Gojo/his husband/fan Nanamin" fanart from @toffeesbox on X.
Notes: established married relationship, explicit birthday sex (you can skip it after the marker), food play with icing, body worship, dirty talk, praise kink, oral sex, spit/wet mouth descriptions, biting, brief hip slap/light impact, rimming/anilingus, light D/s undertones, guided submission, anal fingering, lube, verbal consent before penetration, anal sex, size/stretch focus, light pinning, no condom mentioned, ring kissing/possessive husband behavior, messy romantic smut. WC: 2.5k.
A/N: Ahh, I haven’t written my comfort ship in so long. Nanami might be a little softer here, only because this isn’t canon-stressed Nanami but a loved one & even spoiled a little. He's allowed to be happy. Hakari and Kirara were a big inspiration for the dynamic. Hope you guys enjoy Yearner Satoru, and thank you to the original artist for the cute idea. Happy Birthday, Satoru's wife (& our secret soulmate husband)!!!
Separate Nanami x Reader Birthday Fic - Tomorrow
It's you, it's you, it's all for you
The first time Nanami saw Satoru fight in person, he had a split lip, one eye already swelling shut, and a worrying amount of blood on his shorts.
Satoru still smiled into the camera afterward because somebody in the front row had held up a handmade sign that read, “GOJO-SAN PLEASE MARRY ME!!!”
Satoru had seen it and then seen the blond guy holding it.
Five years later, Satoru was legally allowed to call him "baby" across their apartment.
Nanami looked up from the couch where he was folding laundry. "Hm?"
"Where's my mouthguard?"
"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 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.
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Still Jealous but Soft!Gojo Satoru x Reader (ft. Shoko flirting)
Summary: Satoru tries to “fix” your exhaustion with money, gets put back on thin ice, introduces you to Shoko, gives you a key to his place, and learns that taking care of you means doing the work before you have to ask.
Or, a continuation of "He's been ignoring your needs." It can be read as a standalone, but it'll land better emotionally if you read the last fic first.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, apology sex, Dom/Sub undertones, overstimulation, inappropriate use of Infinity during sex, some crying during sex, boundary conflict, work stress, relationship imbalance, jealousy, Satoru being controlling while trying to help, brief mention of Jujutsu Tech danger/clan politics.
A/N: Got this request from KoshuEchi's comment on the last part of this fic. The section about Mamaogrram was inspired by TheVillagerandtheSea's A Miscommunication. WC: 2.3k
Part 1
Part 2
After a whole day of explaining just enough about his cultish school to not make your head explode, Satoru was trying to cut mango pudding with a bread knife.
You watched the knife sink through soft custard, watched him frown at it with the deep offense of a man who couldn’t locate a spoon.
Then your phone buzzed.
From: Reina
Gojo-san called. He asked if I should clear Thursday afternoon for “mandatory rest” and said he would cover any client penalties. Please advise.
Your hand went still around your fork.
Across the counter, Satoru looked up with pudding on his thumb. “What?”
“Satoru.”
He winced. “Whatever it is, I didn't do it.”
“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
Header images are from Pinterest, and the dividers are from @saradika-graphics.
Still Jealous but Soft!Gojo Satoru x Reader (ft. Shoko flirting)
Summary: Satoru tries to “fix” your exhaustion with money, gets put back on thin ice, introduces you to Shoko, gives you a key to his place, and learns that taking care of you means doing the work before you have to ask.
Or, a continuation of "He's been ignoring your needs." It can be read as a standalone, but it'll land better emotionally if you read the last fic first.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content, apology sex, Dom/Sub undertones, overstimulation, inappropriate use of Infinity during sex, some crying during sex, boundary conflict, work stress, relationship imbalance, jealousy, Satoru being controlling while trying to help, brief mention of Jujutsu Tech danger/clan politics.
A/N: Got this request from KoshuEchi's comment on the last part of this fic. The section about Mamaogrram was inspired by TheVillagerandtheSea's A Miscommunication. WC: 2.3k
Part 1
Part 2
After a whole day of explaining just enough about his cultish school to not make your head explode, Satoru was trying to cut mango pudding with a bread knife.
You watched the knife sink through soft custard, watched him frown at it with the deep offense of a man who couldn’t locate a spoon.
Then your phone buzzed.
From: Reina
Gojo-san called. He asked if I should clear Thursday afternoon for “mandatory rest” and said he would cover any client penalties. Please advise.
Your hand went still around your fork.
Across the counter, Satoru looked up with pudding on his thumb. “What?”
“Satoru.”
He winced. “Whatever it is, I didn't do it.”
“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
Header images are from Pinterest, and the dividers are from @saradika-graphics.
I just saw your nanami post, I need that part two! Im bawling!💕
Anon, you sent me this on July 3rd, 2024.
It was my first ever ask about my first-ever fic, and back then I had nothing for you except a vague idea and the very terrifying realization that people were actually reading what I posted.
I kept this ask close to my heart for over two years after and frankly never thought I'd have anything for you.
Two years later, I finally have something for you and I will post it tomorrow for his birthday, on the 3rd. It grew out of another Nanami birthday idea, so in a strange way, this feels full circle: the first person who asked me for more Nanami gets to be part of the birthday fic that brought him back to me.
Thank you for being my first ask. I really did keep you close on the rough days.
I hope you enjoy this one. He made it to the future this time.
Does it have to be about his birthday? If not then here’s my idea.. if it does, you can add some birthday elements ☺️
Post Shibuya Incident where Nanami survives but lost his eye and has burn scars. Nanami is insecure about his looks while Reader has been there for him every step of his recovery process even when he tries to pull away. Reader is a silent force and confidant for Nanami despite them never admitting their feelings to each other.
Just soft!reader x soft!Nanami that have been “friends” forever. (Friends doing relationship things, everyone sees them as being together but they’ve never put a label on it)
Anon, this is an absolute banger of an ask.
I know the heart of your ask leaned toward post-Shibuya hurt/comfort: Nanami surviving, healing, struggling with his scars, and the reader staying with him through every ugly part of recovery.
However, this became the softer birthday-after version of that. The scars and the eyepatch are still there. The people who love him are loud, nosy, and a little unbearable. And the reader is still the person who has been beside him long before anyone put a name to what they were.
So this is less from the hospital room days and more from the life after it.
It's soft post-Shibuya Nanami, friends who have been acting married for years arriving on a birthday trip to found family meddling and a future he finally lets himself ask for.
Thank you for trusting me with this idea. I hope this softer version still reaches the part of you that wanted him loved.
I'll post it on his birthday (3rd July/friday) since it's still unedited.
I'm doing an event for Nanamin's birthday this year. ♡
July 3rd is Nanami's birthday, so I'm gonna be posting two fics this year for it.
The first fic will be soft post-Shibuya Nanami x isekai'd!reader, based on an anon that has been sitting with me for a long time. It started as a recovery/insecurity thing and turned into Nanami being loved through the part of his life where everyone can see what the two have been for years.
Basically feelings realization from friends doing relationship things. It has a camping trip, old scars, so much yearning, and a man asking you for a future.
The second fic will be Gonana/Nanago birthday smut, because Nanamin deserves to be spoiled by the world’s most annoying husband. It's gonna be Boxer Gojo x Trophy Hubby Nanamin, Inspired by this fanart.
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Summary: In a world still flickering after near-collapse, Nanami returns home to find his wife unraveling under years of masked behavior she can’t hold together anymore. What begins as another quiet evening turns into a fracture point: her first admission that something in her mind has never worked the way others assumed. Nanami listens, not with comfort but with precision, piecing together what everyone else ignored. A study of long-term partnership, misread patterns, and the slow, deliberate work of understanding someone who has survived by hiding in plain sight. WC: 2.6K
A/N: For folks who reached out to me for this. This piece was drafted from an interest in masked behavior and how characters like Nanami & Megumi would respond when someone finally stops performing competence for them. The symptoms are intentionally broad so readers can map their own experiences without the fic prescribing a diagnosis. Megumi’s section expanded as I wrote, so expect a longer arc than planned. If there’s interest, I can explore other character angles later. Enjoy the chapter. Megumi's will be next & final. Feel free to substitute the mentioned illness for your own.
Playlist | Megumi's TBA.
The world outside their apartment looked like someone had taken a blowtorch to society and left it half-melted. Cities had survived post the almost-apocalyptic events of petrification, barely, but the infrastructure still flickered the way old fluorescent tubes did, humming with the sound of a power grid held together by optimism and duct tape. People lived, worked, and crumbled inside that unstable glow.
Nanami adapted. Because there was no other choice.
And he’d survived far worse.
Yet there were still evenings when he came home, crossed the threshold, and felt his pulse stutter. Not from fear, but from an old, quiet ache that had begun forming the day he first realized his wife was unraveling silently in front of everyone, including him, and no one had noticed, not even her.
Not until this moment.
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
Beta by @blackrimmedrose. Lana Del Rey lyrics dividers by @saradika-graphics, support banner from @strangergraphics, and line dividers by @omi-resources.
Summary: Gojo Satoru liked being spoiled a little too much. At first, you didn’t mind. He had bad days, pretty eyes, expensive taste, and a humiliatingly sweet way of saying thank you when you took care of him. Then one bad night became a habit, the habit became your job, and somehow the strongest man alive forgot you were a person with a body, hunger, and needs of your own. So when he sees you laughing over yakiniku with Higuruma Hiromi, he comes home jealous enough to start a fight he is not ready to finish.
Or, Gojo Satoru gets princessed into oblivion, forgets his girlfriend has needs too, and learns the hard way that “come home, baby” is not enough.
Warnings: Babied & Cute Gojo Satoru, Businesswoman/Sugar Mommy Sort of Reader, Jealous + Possessive Gojo Satoru, Emotionally Neglected Reader, Mild hurt/comfort, Established Relationship, Switch/Bottom/Sub Gojo Satoru, Dom Female Reader, Pegging, Strap-Ons, Aftercare, Caretaking, Relationship Issues, Weaponized Incompetence, Emotional Labor, Argument, Apologies, Making Up, Cake as an Apology, Porn With Feelings as Character Study, Gojo Satoru Needs Therapy But Gets Cake Instead.
A/N: FYI, straight people can also like pegging, so this isn't necessarily about Suguru. Also, pre-Shibuya, so Higuruma is a normie living a normie life. WC: 2.8k
Gojo Satoru had become the most high-maintenance woman in your house, and he still had the nerve to whimper under you.
“Good boy,” you praised, hand steady on his hip while he pushed back against the strap with a broken little sound. “Pretty, spoiled thing. Take it, baby.”
He whimpered something incoherent into the pillow, hair messed up, mouth open and drooling all over your bedding—all that smug power wrung out of him. He looked beautiful, happy, and cared for.
You felt your face arrange itself into the right expression.
Your body kept thrusting how he liked because your body knew the job by now—praise him, hold him, check his breathing, kiss his shoulder when he gets overwhelmed, and make him feel safe while your own heat sat in your stomach with yesterday’s cold coffee and three missed client calls.
Your mind took you to the first time you had met him when he’d been trying to steal your pastry box.
You had preordered the last one from the cafe near your office. He stood at the counter in sunglasses, throwing money at the problem while the cashier kept saying, very politely, that the box belonged to someone else.
Then his hand slid toward it.
You’d caught his wrist.
“Since when do rich pretty boys need to shoplift?”
He stared at you as if being caught had hurt his feelings. He didn’t look guilty, just tired under the designer clothes. He was beautiful in an infuriating way, with an iced coffee full of cream and rainbow sprinkles cooling near his elbow.
You split the pastries with him because he looked seconds from crying if he didn’t get them. Or maybe he’d had a shitty day. You had thought that too.
Thought he had watched the box more than he watched you until you started asking him dumb questions on purpose.
By the end, he was laughing into his coffee.
You gave him the whole box for his number.
Next week, when the cafe had the same pastry again, it reminded you of him, so you called.
The greeting that came from the other end was, “Strongest here.”
What a childish thing to say.
You snorted, and your assistant knocked on the glass wall for you to shut up.
That time was different. He seemed to be in a better mood. Made you laugh, flirted back, showed up with flowers too large for your arms.
A few weeks after that, he let you buy him a bracelet that he wore every day.
Sex was good from the start.
Then one night you offered the strap and he got pink before swearing he would hate it.
He did, for about ten minutes.
After that, your life became management: lube in the bedside drawer, charger in the wall, meetings moved because Satoru had texted, “Baby, come home,” and you had.
At first, he ate you out first, then fucked you properly, making it filthy enough that you forgot the imbalance, then enjoyed whatever you gave him with half-shaking knees.
Then he learned your softness had no boundaries. Meaning, you’d do anything to please others—even ignore your own needs and wants.
The first time had been after a bad day.
Satoru had come home and hadn’t even joked at the door. His sunglasses were in his hand, his shirt collar had been crooked, and there was a dark smear of red on his cuff he had already tried to rinse out. He stood in your kitchen, staring at the expensive cake he had bought you on the way home as if he had forgotten why he was holding it.
You took the box from him and set it on the counter. “Come here.”
He gave you a look, tired pride still trying to stand up straight. “You ordering me around now?”
“For tonight, yes.”
You slow-kissed his lips first, then his cheek, his jaw, the hinge of his hand where his fingers had gone cold. You told him he did not have to take care of you back. He made some weak noise about being the strongest, then let you guide him to bed like a man who wanted the comfort of being taken care of but needed the offer dressed up nice enough for his ego.
That night, he asked you more than once if you were sure.
After, he kissed your shoulder and said, “Thank you,” with his face turned away.
So you forgave how much of yourself it took.
The second time, he had a headache.
The third, he had a family meeting and came back mean looking.
Then he stopped asking if you had eaten before he asked if you could come home. He stopped finding the lube, though it sat in the same drawer every time. He sent photos of the harness laid out on the sheets like he had done half the work. If you said you had a call, he said he could be quick, as if the speed gave the commute time back and pleased every client waiting in the office with complaints. If you came home irritated, he acted wounded until you apologized for the mood he had caused.
Now it was a long job, then boredom, then a pretty pout from your bed while you were still in work clothes and hungry.
Your attention snapped back when Satoru made a small, offended sound beneath you because your pace had gone monotonous and void of worship.
“Baby,” he whined, cheek pressed to the pillow. “Don’t drift off on me.”
Your hand tightened on his hip.
There were words somewhere inside you to explain this. You knew there were. Words for I’m human and alive. Words for I need something too. Words for stop making me into the place you only put everything you don’t want to carry, then forget I exist as a mere mortal.
By the time they reached your mouth, all of them felt shameful.
Selfish. Cruel. Ungrateful. Mean.
So you bent over him and kissed his shoulder.
“I’m here,” you whispered, because it was the selfless thing to do. “I’ve got you. You wanted attention, pretty baby? Take it.”
He melted for you and came hard.
You still did the aftercare right—loosened the harness, wiped him down with the warm cloth, got him water, opened the mango pudding he liked from the fridge because Satoru got cranky after sex if his blood sugar dropped. He lay there pink-cheeked and boneless, one arm flung over his face, smiling into the pillow while you checked his hips and asked if anything hurt.
“Mm. You’re so good to me,” he mumbled.
“I know, baby.”
He laughed, sleepy and pleased, missing the customer-service way you said it—warm from habit instead of feeling. Then he tugged at your wrist until you sat beside him, cheek pressing into your thigh with the effortless trust of someone who had been handled with care and gotten too used to receiving it.
Your own body still ached, unfinished and irritating. Your vibrator stayed in the drawer. Your phone buzzed on the nightstand with a client email, then another, then your assistant asking if tomorrow’s lunch meeting should be moved because she felt like you’d vanish again.
Satoru kissed your knee. “Stay.”
So you stayed until he fell asleep.
In the morning, you woke under his arm with dried lube on your stomach, a dead phone, and a calendar full of apologies.
Luckily, Satoru had school to get to, or work, or whatever vague thing he mumbled about while kissing your cheek before leaving with your spare key in his pocket. You still didn’t know what he did for a living—still hadn’t met anyone from his life.
He, of course, knew your secretary because she had come by more than once with office stationery, documents to be signed, and the stupidly expensive gifts you kept ordering for him like an idiot with a credit card and poor self-preservation.
When you arrived at work, three clients had been ready to quit working with you.
By late morning, you had been only able to retain one, and that one had also given their final warning.
Then Higuruma Hiromi stopped beside your desk with a file in one hand and a vending machine coffee in the other. “Have you eaten?”
You looked up at him.
He set the coffee down. “That answers it.”
Then Higuruma’s assistant, Shimizu, dragged both of you to lunch.
Lunch became staying late.
Staying late became yakiniku, cheap beer, and Higuruma telling you about a client who tried to pay his legal fee with rare beetles. You laughed until your ribs hurt.
Satoru saw you through the restaurant window.
He had been out with Shoko, Nanami, and Ijichi, three names he tossed around while still giving you nothing solid enough about them. Some weekend nonsense, he had called it.
Though you didn’t see him until Higuruma dropped you home.
You were still chuckling softly when you unlocked the door and walked inside, heels hooked in one hand, bag slipping off your shoulder. Then the lamp clicked on.
Satoru sat on your couch in the dark, sunglasses off, one ankle over his knee, looking like he had been hired to kill you.
“Where were you?”
Your heels hit the floor with a heavy clatter, and one hand flew to your chest, bracing for the heart attack.
“Jesus Christ, Satoru. Don’t do that.”
“Tell me.”
“Dinner with coworkers. Ran late.”
“With him?”
“With who?”
“The guy in the suit.”
“You were following me?”
“I saw you.”
You went to your bedroom. He followed.
“Satoru, I want to pee without an interrogation. Please stop acting like I’m preparing to cheat just by having dinner with a coworker when I don’t even know what you did all day.”
“What meeting runs that late?”
You unzipped your skirt. He stood there waiting for an answer.
“The kind where people eat meat and complain about clients.”
You went to pee. He stood in the doorway.
“Was he flirting?”
You flushed the toilet and washed your hands. “Weren't you supposed to be with your boys or something?”
“I left.”
“Congratulations.”
He followed you into the bathroom while you turned on the shower. “Do you want him?”
“You think I want him?” You laughed once, rubbing water out of your eyes. “Satoru, I don’t even know where you go in the mornings. You sleep in my bed, use my shower, know my assistant by name, and I couldn’t pick one person from your life out of a police lineup.”
“That’s different. Don’t deflect.”
“Oh, that’s deflecting!” You wiped the steam from the glass and glared. “Rich coming from you.”
He looked stricken for a split second, and then his gaze hardened again. “You are still not answering my question.”
“You are asking me that while standing in my bathroom with my spare key in your pocket.” You looked at him through steam, alcohol, and months of swallowed irritation. “I let you bat your lashes at half the city because you get bored and I never say a word. I haven’t met any of your people, and yet you moved yourself in because, quote, my sheets were nicer, unquote, and I let it happen.”
His mouth tightened. “So you want me gone?”
“I wanted you to act like my boyfriend.”
“I am your boyfriend.”
“You are my princess with a corporate card.”
He huffed a sarcastic laugh. “So what, now you’re bored of me?”
“You’re jealous of a man who bought me grilled meat and asked if I slept.” You looked at him then and watched his jaw move. “That is how low the bar is right now.”
“So you do want him.”
“Do you even hear yourself?” You laughed, ugly and tired. “You want me available every hour, every day, ready to come home and fuck you because you got needy between errands. I am losing contracts because you text me like a dying harlot with a butt plug.”
His ears went red. “I didn’t ask. You offered.”
“And you loved it. You even beg for it.” You stepped out, wrapped in a towel, and copied his voice with cruel accuracy. “‘Baby, please, I can’t think, just a little, I’ll make it up to you.’ Then you pass out on my pillows, and I lie there wide awake, feeling like a fucking robot. When will you take care of me, Satoru? When will my time come? When will I have my bad day, huh?”
He stared at you like he’d never seen you before.
Your voice softened before you could stop it. “My family raised me into free labor. I’m good at guessing needs. Even better at neglecting myself while giving care. You used that angle well.”
The color drained from his face like you had slapped him.
For one stupid second, you wanted to take it back. You wanted to apologize and say you were drunk, tired, dramatic, and mean. Then invite him in the shower and touch his face, fixing the wounded look on him before it became another thing you had to manage.
Satoru beat you to it. “That’s what you think I’m doing?”
Your throat tightened, but you tried to stick to your boundary. “That is what you are doing.”
“So I’m using you.”
“You’re letting yourself use me because it works for you.”
He looked away first.
Water ran behind you, hitting tile, wasting money while both of you stood there half-dressed and angry in a bathroom that smelled like your body wash. Satoru’s jaw moved, but nothing came out. Not even a joke, soft baby, or dramatic threat about the lawyer.
His hand went to his hair, fingers pushing through it hard.
“You could’ve said something.”
The drunk words ran before you could think them over. “I’m not your mother. I shouldn’t have to tell you everything. You are a grown man.”
His eyes cut back to yours, bright with humiliation now. “Right.”
“Satoru—”
“No, I got it.” He nodded too fast. “Princess with a corporate card. Dying harlot. Robot. Free labor.”
You hated hearing it back.
“That isn’t—”
“It is.” He laughed, a thin sound. “You said it pretty clearly.”
He walked out before you could follow. You heard him moving through your bedroom, drawers opening, one closing too hard. A minute later, your spare key landed on the kitchen counter with a small sound.
The front door shut.
You stood in the bathroom until the steam thinned and the water ran cold.
Then you turned the shower off, wrapped the towel tighter, and picked his shirt off the floor because you hated yourself enough to fold it.
The next three days passed in the meanest way possible.
On the first day, you checked your phone every time it buzzed and felt angry when it was a client. On the second, you ordered dinner and left half of it untouched because the mango pudding in your fridge made your stomach twist. On the third, your secretary asked if you wanted the new bracelet invoice filed under personal expenses or gifts, and you stared at the email until the words blurred.
Satoru did not call.
You wrote one text, deleted it, wrote another, then deleted that too.
At 10:48 PM, with your laptop open and nothing done, you sent the worst one.
come home. i’ll buy you whatever stupid sunglasses you want.
He called after eight minutes. “They aren’t stupid.”
“You coming or shopping?”
He came over with a box and a face full of wounded pride.
“I took advantage,” he said at your door, voice rough. “I liked being taken care of, but I let you do all of it.”
You looked down at the cake inside the translucent box. “Is that my apology?”
“It’s cake and an apology. I panicked.”
You stepped aside.
Inside, he put the cake on the counter. The spare key still lay there from the night he left. Satoru looked at it and didn’t touch it.
Then he knelt in front of you before you could make a joke. His hands rested on your waist, careful for once.
“I’ll take care of you too,” he murmured. “Actually. Food, sleep, sex, work—all of it. You shouldn’t have to beg.”
Your throat closed a little.
His thumb rubbed the exposed skin at your waist. “And I’ll still be pretty.”
You huffed.
He smiled then, small and relieved. “That part feels important.”
You pulled him up by his collar. “Shut up and feed me cake.”
He kissed your cheek, grabbed two forks, and gave you the bigger piece.
A/N: What would you have done? Didn't mind, forgave him, or moved on?
Masterlist
Header images are from Pinterest, and the dividers are mine.
@rahuratna I just finished watching Witch hat atelier and omg fucking helll, thanks for the indirect rec. I need himz. Ahhh he's so sweet, exactly how I like writing good father figures.
@otakuchan1107 bro exactly feel the same. it's the best fantasy anime ever and the story and the world building is done so well too. plus our teach is just overall the bestest around and is so caring towards his daughters students. 🏮🦊🌸❤️🏵️🤤
Summary: Gojo Satoru liked being spoiled a little too much. At first, you didn’t mind. He had bad days, pretty eyes, expensive taste, and a humiliatingly sweet way of saying thank you when you took care of him. Then one bad night became a habit, the habit became your job, and somehow the strongest man alive forgot you were a person with a body, hunger, and needs of your own. So when he sees you laughing over yakiniku with Higuruma Hiromi, he comes home jealous enough to start a fight he is not ready to finish.
Or, Gojo Satoru gets princessed into oblivion, forgets his girlfriend has needs too, and learns the hard way that “come home, baby” is not enough.
Warnings: Babied & Cute Gojo Satoru, Businesswoman/Sugar Mommy Sort of Reader, Jealous + Possessive Gojo Satoru, Emotionally Neglected Reader, Mild hurt/comfort, Established Relationship, Switch/Bottom/Sub Gojo Satoru, Dom Female Reader, Pegging, Strap-Ons, Aftercare, Caretaking, Relationship Issues, Weaponized Incompetence, Emotional Labor, Argument, Apologies, Making Up, Cake as an Apology, Porn With Feelings as Character Study, Gojo Satoru Needs Therapy But Gets Cake Instead.
A/N: FYI, straight people can also like pegging, so this isn't necessarily about Suguru. Also, pre-Shibuya, so Higuruma is a normie living a normie life. WC: 2.8k
Gojo Satoru had become the most high-maintenance woman in your house, and he still had the nerve to whimper under you.
“Good boy,” you praised, hand steady on his hip while he pushed back against the strap with a broken little sound. “Pretty, spoiled thing. Take it, baby.”
He whimpered something incoherent into the pillow, hair messed up, mouth open and drooling all over your bedding—all that smug power wrung out of him. He looked beautiful, happy, and cared for.
You felt your face arrange itself into the right expression.
Your body kept thrusting how he liked because your body knew the job by now—praise him, hold him, check his breathing, kiss his shoulder when he gets overwhelmed, and make him feel safe while your own heat sat in your stomach with yesterday’s cold coffee and three missed client calls.
Your mind took you to the first time you had met him when he’d been trying to steal your pastry box.
You had preordered the last one from the cafe near your office. He stood at the counter in sunglasses, throwing money at the problem while the cashier kept saying, very politely, that the box belonged to someone else.
Then his hand slid toward it.
You’d caught his wrist.
“Since when do rich pretty boys need to shoplift?”
He stared at you as if being caught had hurt his feelings. He didn’t look guilty, just tired under the designer clothes. He was beautiful in an infuriating way, with an iced coffee full of cream and rainbow sprinkles cooling near his elbow.
You split the pastries with him because he looked seconds from crying if he didn’t get them. Or maybe he’d had a shitty day. You had thought that too.
Thought he had watched the box more than he watched you until you started asking him dumb questions on purpose.
By the end, he was laughing into his coffee.
You gave him the whole box for his number.
Next week, when the cafe had the same pastry again, it reminded you of him, so you called.
The greeting that came from the other end was, “Strongest here.”
What a childish thing to say.
You snorted, and your assistant knocked on the glass wall for you to shut up.
That time was different. He seemed to be in a better mood. Made you laugh, flirted back, showed up with flowers too large for your arms.
A few weeks after that, he let you buy him a bracelet that he wore every day.
Sex was good from the start.
Then one night you offered the strap and he got pink before swearing he would hate it.
He did, for about ten minutes.
After that, your life became management: lube in the bedside drawer, charger in the wall, meetings moved because Satoru had texted, “Baby, come home,” and you had.
At first, he ate you out first, then fucked you properly, making it filthy enough that you forgot the imbalance, then enjoyed whatever you gave him with half-shaking knees.
Then he learned your softness had no boundaries. Meaning, you’d do anything to please others—even ignore your own needs and wants.
The first time had been after a bad day.
Satoru had come home and hadn’t even joked at the door. His sunglasses were in his hand, his shirt collar had been crooked, and there was a dark smear of red on his cuff he had already tried to rinse out. He stood in your kitchen, staring at the expensive cake he had bought you on the way home as if he had forgotten why he was holding it.
You took the box from him and set it on the counter. “Come here.”
He gave you a look, tired pride still trying to stand up straight. “You ordering me around now?”
“For tonight, yes.”
You slow-kissed his lips first, then his cheek, his jaw, the hinge of his hand where his fingers had gone cold. You told him he did not have to take care of you back. He made some weak noise about being the strongest, then let you guide him to bed like a man who wanted the comfort of being taken care of but needed the offer dressed up nice enough for his ego.
That night, he asked you more than once if you were sure.
After, he kissed your shoulder and said, “Thank you,” with his face turned away.
So you forgave how much of yourself it took.
The second time, he had a headache.
The third, he had a family meeting and came back mean looking.
Then he stopped asking if you had eaten before he asked if you could come home. He stopped finding the lube, though it sat in the same drawer every time. He sent photos of the harness laid out on the sheets like he had done half the work. If you said you had a call, he said he could be quick, as if the speed gave the commute time back and pleased every client waiting in the office with complaints. If you came home irritated, he acted wounded until you apologized for the mood he had caused.
Now it was a long job, then boredom, then a pretty pout from your bed while you were still in work clothes and hungry.
Your attention snapped back when Satoru made a small, offended sound beneath you because your pace had gone monotonous and void of worship.
“Baby,” he whined, cheek pressed to the pillow. “Don’t drift off on me.”
Your hand tightened on his hip.
There were words somewhere inside you to explain this. You knew there were. Words for I’m human and alive. Words for I need something too. Words for stop making me into the place you only put everything you don’t want to carry, then forget I exist as a mere mortal.
By the time they reached your mouth, all of them felt shameful.
Selfish. Cruel. Ungrateful. Mean.
So you bent over him and kissed his shoulder.
“I’m here,” you whispered, because it was the selfless thing to do. “I’ve got you. You wanted attention, pretty baby? Take it.”
He melted for you and came hard.
You still did the aftercare right—loosened the harness, wiped him down with the warm cloth, got him water, opened the mango pudding he liked from the fridge because Satoru got cranky after sex if his blood sugar dropped. He lay there pink-cheeked and boneless, one arm flung over his face, smiling into the pillow while you checked his hips and asked if anything hurt.
“Mm. You’re so good to me,” he mumbled.
“I know, baby.”
He laughed, sleepy and pleased, missing the customer-service way you said it—warm from habit instead of feeling. Then he tugged at your wrist until you sat beside him, cheek pressing into your thigh with the effortless trust of someone who had been handled with care and gotten too used to receiving it.
Your own body still ached, unfinished and irritating. Your vibrator stayed in the drawer. Your phone buzzed on the nightstand with a client email, then another, then your assistant asking if tomorrow’s lunch meeting should be moved because she felt like you’d vanish again.
Satoru kissed your knee. “Stay.”
So you stayed until he fell asleep.
In the morning, you woke under his arm with dried lube on your stomach, a dead phone, and a calendar full of apologies.
Luckily, Satoru had school to get to, or work, or whatever vague thing he mumbled about while kissing your cheek before leaving with your spare key in his pocket. You still didn’t know what he did for a living—still hadn’t met anyone from his life.
He, of course, knew your secretary because she had come by more than once with office stationery, documents to be signed, and the stupidly expensive gifts you kept ordering for him like an idiot with a credit card and poor self-preservation.
When you arrived at work, three clients had been ready to quit working with you.
By late morning, you had been only able to retain one, and that one had also given their final warning.
Then Higuruma Hiromi stopped beside your desk with a file in one hand and a vending machine coffee in the other. “Have you eaten?”
You looked up at him.
He set the coffee down. “That answers it.”
Then Higuruma’s assistant, Shimizu, dragged both of you to lunch.
Lunch became staying late.
Staying late became yakiniku, cheap beer, and Higuruma telling you about a client who tried to pay his legal fee with rare beetles. You laughed until your ribs hurt.
Satoru saw you through the restaurant window.
He had been out with Shoko, Nanami, and Ijichi, three names he tossed around while still giving you nothing solid enough about them. Some weekend nonsense, he had called it.
Though you didn’t see him until Higuruma dropped you home.
You were still chuckling softly when you unlocked the door and walked inside, heels hooked in one hand, bag slipping off your shoulder. Then the lamp clicked on.
Satoru sat on your couch in the dark, sunglasses off, one ankle over his knee, looking like he had been hired to kill you.
“Where were you?”
Your heels hit the floor with a heavy clatter, and one hand flew to your chest, bracing for the heart attack.
“Jesus Christ, Satoru. Don’t do that.”
“Tell me.”
“Dinner with coworkers. Ran late.”
“With him?”
“With who?”
“The guy in the suit.”
“You were following me?”
“I saw you.”
You went to your bedroom. He followed.
“Satoru, I want to pee without an interrogation. Please stop acting like I’m preparing to cheat just by having dinner with a coworker when I don’t even know what you did all day.”
“What meeting runs that late?”
You unzipped your skirt. He stood there waiting for an answer.
“The kind where people eat meat and complain about clients.”
You went to pee. He stood in the doorway.
“Was he flirting?”
You flushed the toilet and washed your hands. “Weren't you supposed to be with your boys or something?”
“I left.”
“Congratulations.”
He followed you into the bathroom while you turned on the shower. “Do you want him?”
“You think I want him?” You laughed once, rubbing water out of your eyes. “Satoru, I don’t even know where you go in the mornings. You sleep in my bed, use my shower, know my assistant by name, and I couldn’t pick one person from your life out of a police lineup.”
“That’s different. Don’t deflect.”
“Oh, that’s deflecting!” You wiped the steam from the glass and glared. “Rich coming from you.”
He looked stricken for a split second, and then his gaze hardened again. “You are still not answering my question.”
“You are asking me that while standing in my bathroom with my spare key in your pocket.” You looked at him through steam, alcohol, and months of swallowed irritation. “I let you bat your lashes at half the city because you get bored and I never say a word. I haven’t met any of your people, and yet you moved yourself in because, quote, my sheets were nicer, unquote, and I let it happen.”
His mouth tightened. “So you want me gone?”
“I wanted you to act like my boyfriend.”
“I am your boyfriend.”
“You are my princess with a corporate card.”
He huffed a sarcastic laugh. “So what, now you’re bored of me?”
“You’re jealous of a man who bought me grilled meat and asked if I slept.” You looked at him then and watched his jaw move. “That is how low the bar is right now.”
“So you do want him.”
“Do you even hear yourself?” You laughed, ugly and tired. “You want me available every hour, every day, ready to come home and fuck you because you got needy between errands. I am losing contracts because you text me like a dying harlot with a butt plug.”
His ears went red. “I didn’t ask. You offered.”
“And you loved it. You even beg for it.” You stepped out, wrapped in a towel, and copied his voice with cruel accuracy. “‘Baby, please, I can’t think, just a little, I’ll make it up to you.’ Then you pass out on my pillows, and I lie there wide awake, feeling like a fucking robot. When will you take care of me, Satoru? When will my time come? When will I have my bad day, huh?”
He stared at you like he’d never seen you before.
Your voice softened before you could stop it. “My family raised me into free labor. I’m good at guessing needs. Even better at neglecting myself while giving care. You used that angle well.”
The color drained from his face like you had slapped him.
For one stupid second, you wanted to take it back. You wanted to apologize and say you were drunk, tired, dramatic, and mean. Then invite him in the shower and touch his face, fixing the wounded look on him before it became another thing you had to manage.
Satoru beat you to it. “That’s what you think I’m doing?”
Your throat tightened, but you tried to stick to your boundary. “That is what you are doing.”
“So I’m using you.”
“You’re letting yourself use me because it works for you.”
He looked away first.
Water ran behind you, hitting tile, wasting money while both of you stood there half-dressed and angry in a bathroom that smelled like your body wash. Satoru’s jaw moved, but nothing came out. Not even a joke, soft baby, or dramatic threat about the lawyer.
His hand went to his hair, fingers pushing through it hard.
“You could’ve said something.”
The drunk words ran before you could think them over. “I’m not your mother. I shouldn’t have to tell you everything. You are a grown man.”
His eyes cut back to yours, bright with humiliation now. “Right.”
“Satoru—”
“No, I got it.” He nodded too fast. “Princess with a corporate card. Dying harlot. Robot. Free labor.”
You hated hearing it back.
“That isn’t—”
“It is.” He laughed, a thin sound. “You said it pretty clearly.”
He walked out before you could follow. You heard him moving through your bedroom, drawers opening, one closing too hard. A minute later, your spare key landed on the kitchen counter with a small sound.
The front door shut.
You stood in the bathroom until the steam thinned and the water ran cold.
Then you turned the shower off, wrapped the towel tighter, and picked his shirt off the floor because you hated yourself enough to fold it.
The next three days passed in the meanest way possible.
On the first day, you checked your phone every time it buzzed and felt angry when it was a client. On the second, you ordered dinner and left half of it untouched because the mango pudding in your fridge made your stomach twist. On the third, your secretary asked if you wanted the new bracelet invoice filed under personal expenses or gifts, and you stared at the email until the words blurred.
Satoru did not call.
You wrote one text, deleted it, wrote another, then deleted that too.
At 10:48 PM, with your laptop open and nothing done, you sent the worst one.
come home. i’ll buy you whatever stupid sunglasses you want.
He called after eight minutes. “They aren’t stupid.”
“You coming or shopping?”
He came over with a box and a face full of wounded pride.
“I took advantage,” he said at your door, voice rough. “I liked being taken care of, but I let you do all of it.”
You looked down at the cake inside the translucent box. “Is that my apology?”
“It’s cake and an apology. I panicked.”
You stepped aside.
Inside, he put the cake on the counter. The spare key still lay there from the night he left. Satoru looked at it and didn’t touch it.
Then he knelt in front of you before you could make a joke. His hands rested on your waist, careful for once.
“I’ll take care of you too,” he murmured. “Actually. Food, sleep, sex, work—all of it. You shouldn’t have to beg.”
Your throat closed a little.
His thumb rubbed the exposed skin at your waist. “And I’ll still be pretty.”
You huffed.
He smiled then, small and relieved. “That part feels important.”
You pulled him up by his collar. “Shut up and feed me cake.”
He kissed your cheek, grabbed two forks, and gave you the bigger piece.
A/N: What would you have done? Didn't mind, forgave him, or moved on?
UPDATE: Since many of you think it was unfair for you to have to call him (I agree), I'm gonna do a part two where he gets jumped.
Part 2 | Masterlist
Header images are from Pinterest, and the dividers are mine.
Software Dev!Itadori Yuji x Firefighter!Pregnant Reader
(Ft. Lawyer!Megumi Fushiguro x Editor-in-Chief!Pregnant Reader)
Summary: You find your husband's search history.
Tags: Cute!Yuji · Slice Of Life · Fluff · Established Marriage · Early- to Mid-30s Yuji and Reader · Alaska Move · typo-heavy search history · Pregnancy · Joking wildlife danger/bear and moose mentions · Prior miscarriage/pregnancy loss · Pregnancy after loss anxiety · Fetal movement anxiety · Checking breathing at night · Emotional crying · Food/cravings · Firefighting & emergency references · Siren-related sadness · Mild profanity. Not beta read yet, bc I'm genuinely going through a manic episode, so please wait a little bit. WC: 5.4K.
A/N: Hope you enjoy, anon. Based on this request.
Playlist | Part 1: Megumi's version
can pregnante wife fite bear if she off duty firefigher and big mad?? asking for resefrch popous
NOT letring her do it just curiouse
pls dont tell wife
That is the first thing you catch on your husband’s laptop while he stands outside the little rental cabin you’d been calling home, gossiping with three retired women in matching purple parkas.
Yuji had gone out to the store for firewood seven minutes ago. He came back with no firewood, one knitted pamphlet holder, and the attention of every grandmother within a five-cabin radius.
Through the window, you can see him in the driveway with his hands shoved into his coat pockets, nodding gravely while Mrs. Wilkins from cabin three points down the road with a mitten and tells him, from the look of it, the dirtiest local news available.
His laptop sits open on the kitchen island because Yuji lives as if every object in the house loves him back and would never fling itself off a counter to voluntarily jump to its death.
You had only meant to check the bakery address because he promised you cinnamon rolls after breakfast, and then he got intercepted by the purple-parka council before he could remember he had a wife inside—a pregnant hungry wife with firefighter shoulders and enough free time to learn his password through marital osmosis.
You scroll through his search history.
what sise thermos for emoshunal suport soup wife
safe alaska activitees pregnant wife strong personallity no hiking she will lie
how many stares is too many stares third trimster
does baby hear dad crying in showr asking for normal reason
how to delete crying in shower from wife serch histroy fast
can wif tell if husbend is scared thru forhead kitching
moose saftey preganant wife
can moose smell fear from software enginer
is it insulting to ask firefigher wife to let me carry groseries
ways to say please stop lifting furnicher without sounding like unsuportive little bitch
wife keeps saying she can axe kick me while pregnant should i be woried
prenatal message near girlwood accepts hushband shitting in corner quietly
heated loge fire pits pregnate wife alaska no slippery walk
why does wife look hotter pregnant sience
how to survive wife looking hotter pregnant sience help
You lower one hand to your stomach, unable to hide your laugh.
The baby shifts under your palm, a slow drag beneath your ribs from the laughter.
Outside, Yuji laughs with the grandmas and accepts a paper bag from one of them. Pink strands poke out from under his beanie, and his cheeks are red from the cold. He looks huge in that softened athlete way he insists is “developer body”—the man looks as if he could shoulder through a locked door.
One of the women pats his forearm. Yuji leans down to hear her better.
You scroll again.
best train ride alaska pregnate wife can nap and i can stare noraly
pregnnant firefig wife bored activitees safe but not babyish she will get mad
is it bad if wife misses emergencys while on leave
what to do when pregnant wife hears siren and gets sad but says she is fine liar
wife miscarrage before how to stop checking if shes breathing at night without waking her up
Your smile falls away.
The kitchen air feels heavy around you.
He had been doing that again last night. You felt him wake at 3:12 because you had already been awake, staring at the ceiling while one hand rested under your belly. The baby had taken a long gap between movements, maybe twenty minutes, maybe less, maybe your brain stretching each second until overthinking took over. Yuji had rolled toward you, breath held, palm hovering over your side until you caught his wrist and pressed it down.
“She’s fine,” you had whispered without looking at him.
“I know,” he whispered back, lying with the care of a man who would rather bite his own tongue than hand you his fear.
Then the baby kicked his palm, and he shook so silently you pretended he had cold hands and pulled him closer.
Now his search history sits in front of you, stupid and bruised like his heart.
how to stop checking if shes breathing at night
You wipe under your eye with the heel of your hand, annoyed with yourself before the tear gets anywhere.
You are a firefighter.
You have dragged men twice your size down stairwells, lifted a couch off a teenager’s ankle during a gas leak, and then yelled at his father for trying to light a cigarette outside. You once held a cupboard when it almost toppled over Yuji while he cleaned the floor.
You are also seven months pregnant and crying over “emoshunal suport soup wife.”
The front door opens and cold air rushes in.
Yuji comes in carrying no firewood and a plastic container of what looks like cookies.
“Baby, emergency development,” he says, kicking snow off his boots. “Janet from cabin five has been stealing Barbara’s birdseed, but Barbara has been putting cayenne in it, so now Janet’s dog has diarrhea, and nobody can prove intent. Also, Eileen gave us snickerdoodles because I said you liked cinnamon, and she said I have an honest forehead.”
You close the search history.
A little too late.
Yuji stops with one boot half off.
His eyes go from your face to the laptop, then back to your face with terrible speed. “You saw a bear fight.”
“I saw many things.”
He puts the cookies on the entry table cautiously and removes his gloves. “I can explain the bear one.”
“Yeah?”
“You said, and I quote, ‘I could take a black bear.’”
“I was emotional after the documentary.”
“You were eating shredded cheese straight from the bag and flexing at the television.”
“The bear had weak hips.”
Yuji’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again with husbandly grief. “This is why I had to be sure.”
You look at him standing there in his stupid socks, face red from cold, trying to decide whether to apologize for loving you in a browser window.
Your anger has nowhere to go, so it turns around and eats you instead. “You looked up the train.”
His expression changes—the funniness drains out slowly, leaving the softer part of him in full view. “Yeah.”
“Your grammar needs Jesus.”
“I was in hiding.”
You laugh, and it wobbles halfway.
Yuji crosses the room so fast that the floorboards complain. His hands come to your face first, warm from his gloves, thumbs under your eyes before the tears can collect.
“Hey, hey. Did I scare you?”
“Your laptop says you think I’m going to fistfight wildlife.”
“You would win against a medium coyote.”
“Yuji.”
“Sorry.”
You press your forehead into his chest, right under the zipper of his jacket. He smells like the peanut butter protein bar he ate over the sink this morning when he thought you were sleeping.
His arms wrap around you with care, but there is still that reflex in him, that full-body need to gather, cover, keep. He has to remind himself that you can breathe. You feel him do it. His hands spread across your back, then ease.
“I’m scared all the time,” he says into your hair.
You close your eyes.
That is the thing you both keep setting carefully on the table and then hiding under grocery lists, baby-name jokes, doctor appointments, and prenatal vitamins lined in a row by the sink.
“I know,” you whisper.
His chin presses to the top of your head. “I keep thinking if I plan hard enough, it should keep her safe.”
You grip the sides of his coat.
After the miscarriage, Yuji had learned terror. Learned the number for the clinic by heart. Learned which towels to use. Learned how long a person could sit on bathroom tile before their legs went numb. Learned how to keep his voice stable while calling the nurse line. Learned that a body could carry a person out of a burning building and still betray its owner in one moment of peace.
You learned the sound of him sobbing in the laundry room with the dryer running because he thought the machine would cover it.
Alaska had been your idea, mainly. A place with space where Yuji could work remote and you could stop waving at people from the station who looked at your belly before they looked at your face. Then it became a place where sirens came fewer and farther between, where you could hear your own kettle and your husband muttering at his code and feel the baby’s hiccups through your skin.
Yuji had agreed within one night, and by breakfast he had spreadsheets.
Now he kisses the top of your head with a care that makes your ribs hurt.
“I want tomorrow to be good,” he tells you. “I want you to have one whole day where I don’t act as if the universe is waiting for me to stop paying attention.”
“You Googled whether moose smell fear.”
“Because if they do, we have a problem.”
You laugh into his coat.
He loosens his grip enough to look down at you. His eyes are bright, and he is trying to make them behave.
“I know you can do things—you can carry me. You can carry strangers. Kick a door in.”
You rub a tear off your own cheek. “I hate being treated like I’m breakable.”
“I know.” Yuji takes your hand and presses it flat over his chest, right where his heart is going hard. “I’m trying to fuss in a way that feels like help instead of a cage.”
You look down because his face is too much right now.
The baby kicks under your sweater.
Yuji gasps, “Our daughter agrees.”
“Our daughter has been headbutting my bladder since five this morning.”
Yuji’s hands drop instantly to your belly. “Baby, your mother deserves bladder peace.”
The baby answers with a thump under his palm.
He goes silent. It is embarrassing how fast his eyes fill.
You hook a finger under his chin. “If you cry on my sweater, I’m telling the grandmas.”
“They already know I’m sensitive. Eileen said it was good for the baby.”
“Eileen has known you for nine minutes.”
“She said I have grandson energy.”
“You have golden retriever energy with student loans.”
“I paid those off.”
Yuji kisses you. He tastes faintly of coffee and cinnamon gum. His hands are careful at your waist. Yours are less careful because you are you, and your body misses hauling hoses, forcing doors, and doing anything that proves you still own it.
You grab the front of his coat and tug him down until he huffs against your mouth.
“Baby,” he says, muffled. “Your center of gravity.”
“My center of gravity wants another kiss.”
“It can have one while seated.”
“You’re a coward.”
“I’m her dad.”
Your hand stills.
He freezes the second he says it, as if the word landed between you on the floor and might crack.
Dad.
The first time, you had bought him a tiny orange onesie with a cartoon tiger on it. He held it with both hands and cried so hard he got hiccups. Weeks later, he folded it himself and put it in the bottom drawer because neither of you could stand seeing it, and neither of you could stand throwing it away.
Now the word lives again.
Yuji swallows.
You take his wrist and place his hand on your belly. “Say it again.”
His mouth trembles.
You wait.
“I’m your dad,” he says, smaller, to your stomach this time. “And I’m asking you to please stop making your mother crave canned peaches at midnight. She opens them with a knife because she says the can opener takes too long.”
You smack his shoulder.
He grins through wet lashes.
---
The day begins with him attempting to dress you as if you are an expedition leader and also a cherished egg.
He lays out thermal leggings, wool socks, boots, two sweaters, a coat, gloves, a hat, a scarf, a backup scarf, and a pair of traction cleats you stare at. “I am going sightseeing, Yuji. Not storming a glacier fort.”
“You said the sidewalk by the bakery was slick yesterday.”
“I also said I wanted to suplex the mayor in my dream, and you didn’t buy me a mayor.”
“I looked up local government contact hours.”
You turn slowly.
Yuji lifts both hands. “For civic awareness. In case you went Super Saiyan or something.”
You sigh and put on the cleats because you love him and because you did nearly slip outside the post office last week while carrying nothing heavier than a library card, which he mentioned once and then visibly swallowed every future mention because he enjoys living.
He kneels to fasten the strap around your boot.
You look down at his bent head, at the pink hair curling beneath his beanie, and at the breadth of him squeezed into your little mudroom. You hope your daughter gets his hair.
Unaware, Yuji tests the strap, then does the other boot, then taps each heel against the mat. “Walk test.”
“I have walked before.”
“Humor me.”
“You are lucky you’re pretty.”
Yuji beams up at you. “You think I’m pretty?”
“I married you for your emergency contact information.”
“And my ass.”
“You’re delaying the walk test.”
He stands and offers both hands with seriousness. You take them and stomp twice on the mat. The cleats bite into the rubber.
Yuji nods. “Excellent. Now if a moose challenges you, we retreat.”
“If a moose challenges me, I’m squaring up.”
“From inside the car.”
“From a safe conversational distance.”
“Through glass.”
You kiss his cheek before he can draft a moose treaty.
The first stop is the train because Yuji decided that your day should begin with heated seats, pastries, and enough window scenery to keep you from noticing he has checked the aisle, your footing, and your seat three times.
The Alaska Railroad car is warm, making your cheeks sting after the cold. Yuji walks in carrying a tote bag that has gained weight since morning. He has packed ginger chews, crackers, water, tissues, hand sanitizer, a portable charger, an extra battery pack, a thermos of soup, a thermos of hot chocolate, bananas, prenatal vitamins, a paperback you said you might reread, and a tiny blood pressure cuff.
You find the cuff when he reaches for napkins. “Yuji.”
“It was on sale.”
“You used my discount code?”
“Our household discount code.”
“You bought medical equipment with the same code I use for mascara.”
The woman in the seat across the aisle laughs into her coffee.
Yuji looks delighted to have an audience. “She’s a firefighter.”
The woman perks up. “Really?”
You sit straighter despite the belly. “On leave.”
“She once carried me out of our apartment because I fell asleep on the floor,” Yuji says, proud as a parade.
“You were blocking the bookshelf.”
“She used the fireman’s carry, which was both romantic and humiliating.”
The woman’s husband leans over. “How much do you weigh?”
"112 kg, which is about two-forty-five," Yuji tells him smugly.
The husband turns to you with deep respect.
You spend the first twenty minutes of the train ride being asked about firefighting by two retirees from Oregon while Yuji supplies incorrect supporting commentary.
“She has an axe.”
“I have used many axes.”
“She could break our front door with one kick.”
“That was one time, and the jamb was weak.”
“She can smell electrical fires.”
“I smelled the toaster burning because you put a tortilla in it vertically.”
“It fit.”
“It caught fire.”
“It fit first.”
When the train moves past snow-covered trees and a strip of water dark under the ice, Yuji’s hand finds your knee. His thumb taps once, then twice. His eyes are on the window, but you can tell he is counting.
The baby has been still since you boarded.
You put your hand over his and press. “She was kicking during breakfast.”
“I know.”
“She probably fell asleep.”
“I know.”
His smile stays on his mouth and leaves the rest of his face.
You shift, take his hand, and move it under your coat, against the side of your stomach. The angle is awkward, your elbow pressed into the armrest, his shoulder hunched, but he stays there. The retirees lower their voices and pretend they do not see.
The baby gives one lazy roll.
Yuji lets out a breath so heavy it fogs the edge of the window.
“There,” you murmur.
He nods, his fingers spreading.
For a few minutes, the crackle in him settles. He stops performing fine for strangers, watches the snow, keeps his palm under your coat, and lets the train carry you.
At the dining car, he brings back cinnamon rolls the size of small helmets.
You stare at yours.
Yuji watches your face with hope so obvious it should have its own zip code.
“You remembered.”
“You threatened divorce in the bakery window yesterday.”
“I said I would reconsider certain legal benefits if cinnamon access became inconsistent.”
He hands you a fork, then immediately swaps it for a different fork from his napkin bundle.
“What was wrong with that one?”
“I didn’t like its energy.”
You snort, then take a bite. Butter, cinnamon, soft dough, sugar sticking to the roof of your mouth.
Yuji watches. “Good?”
You take another bite.
His shoulders drop.
Then you hold a forkful toward him.
He leans in and eats it.
At Portage, he drives the wildlife loop at a speed that makes pedestrians powerful.
You sit in the passenger seat with your boots planted wide, one hand under the belly, one hand in a paper bag of Pilot Bread crackers from the station.
A bison lifts its head near the fence.
Your car is moving at the speed of a careful shopping cart, but he brakes with both hands steady on the wheel and a face fit for landing aircraft.
“Yuji.”
“He looked at the car.”
“He’s eating hay.”
You take a cracker and eat it, then take another and hold it to his mouth.
He accepts without looking away from the bison.
He chews slowly like he’s trying to assert his dominance over the bison.
You open the sealed packet of shelf-stable salmon jerky he bought after an old man at the station said locals ate it on road trips, and Yuji checked the label twice before paying.
Yuji sniffs the strip you hold up. “This smells like a dock got into college.”
“Open.”
He opens his mouth and eats.
The face he makes is immediate, painful, and silent because he is still trying to be brave for you.
You laugh so hard the baby jolts.
Yuji points at your belly with the half-chewed strip still in his mouth. “Is she laughing?”
“She recoiled.”
“She has your taste in comedy.”
“She has your taste in food—made me eat peanut butter with pickles yesterday.”
“That was her finest work.”
At the next pullout, you make him park because you need to stretch your legs and because he is starting to develop a posture.
The snow is packed down near the viewing area. Yuji gets out first, comes around, opens your door, and holds both hands out.
You stare at them.
He stares back.
“Move your hands, Itadori.”
His mouth twitches at the government-name treatment. He lowers his hands, then hovers so intensely he may as well be wearing a neon vest.
You step down without incident.
Yuji exhales.
You grab his coat and yank him down to kiss him right there beside the car, because his relief is stupid and sweet and maddening.
He makes a surprised sound against your mouth, hands going to your elbows before he moves them to your waist instead.
“You are extremely annoying,” you tell him.
“I’ve been told I’m charming.”
“By grandmothers who weaponize birdseed.”
“They understand me.”
You start walking the little cleared path. Yuji matches your pace with discipline.
Yuji slows when you slow. He stops when you stop. He even pretends to study animal signage while you catch your breath.
That is how he loves you best, you think. Loudly, until you need your own dignity. Then he gives you enough room to pretend.
A wolf moves beyond the fence, pale against the trees.
You both watch it until it disappears between the trunks.
“You know what I miss?” you ask.
Yuji’s hand tightens around yours. “The station?”
You nod.
He does not give you the speech people keep giving you. Leave is temporary. Rest is important. You’re doing enough. You know all that, and knowing it has not stopped you from checking the department group chat too often or going still when sirens pass the grocery store.
“I miss being useful without everyone looking nervous about it,” you say.
Yuji turns his head toward you.
You look down at your boots. “I miss picking up heavy things and having people move out of my way because they trusted me to know what I was doing.”
“They still trust you.”
“Now they trust me to sit down.”
His thumb moves over your glove.
“I hate that,” you admit. “I know why. I know everyone means well. I still hate it.”
Yuji is quiet for a moment.
Then he says, “You ran into buildings for years.”
You glance at him.
“You pulled people out when everyone else was told to stay back.” His voice stays careful. “You don’t have to earn rest like it’s overtime.”
You try to laugh, but your mouth gives you away.
“And she counts,” he says, looking down at your belly before you can argue. “Before you say she doesn’t, she counts.”
Your eyes sting.
“She’s a baby,” you whisper.
“Yeah,” Yuji says. “So she counts more because she is family and currently stealing your calcium.”
That gets a wet laugh out of you.
His smile comes small, then bends into something softer. “You sleep better here, you know.”
You rub your thumb over his knuckles.
“Most nights,” he says. “When the plow doesn’t wake you. When the baby isn’t practicing MMA on your organs.”
“You sing in the kitchen again,” he says. “You haven’t done that much since…”
The sentence ends there because he cannot say that date without changing the air.
You lean your shoulder against his arm.
He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You’re helping me too. I know that sounds selfish.”
“It does.”
He lowers his voice. “Every day I see you put your boots by the door, eat your weird peaches, complain about maternity jeans, and tell the baby her dad is corny, I get another day where this is real.”
You cup his cheek with a gloved hand. You look at his face, open and scared and earnest. Yuji has no talent for hiding love. It is one of the reasons you married him. It is also the reason he cannot get away with anything.
“I’m scared too,” you say.
His eyes close for half a second.
“But I want the day,” you continue. “I want the dumb train and the suspicious salmon jerky and the lodge you looked up. I want you hovering badly enough that I get to yell at you in public. I want all of it.”
Yuji leans his forehead against yours, his beanie bumping your hat. “Okay.”
“And I want cinnamon again.”
“We have one in the tote.”
“Of course we do.”
He kisses your forehead.
You hook your arm through his. “Any new gossip?”
His face lights back up because he is shameless. “Did I tell you what Barbara said about the guy who rents snowmobiles?”
---
The lodge in Girdwood looks exactly like the kind of place Yuji would choose after reading forty-seven reviews and ignoring the ones written by men named Brad.
There are fire pits outside, chairs with thick blankets over the backs, a restaurant with warm bread service, and a lobby big enough for Yuji to get emotional about exposed beams.
He parks close to the entrance and then ruins his own smooth exit by sprint-walking around the car, slipping once, recovering through pure core strength, and pretending the slip had been planned.
“I saw that,” you say.
“Saw what?”
“You almost became a cautionary tale.”
You let him open your door because you are tired and because his face when you accept help is worth the price of your pride.
“I was testing traction.”
“With your life?”
“With my husbandly instincts.”
You step down, and the cold bites your cheeks. Yuji blocks the wind with his body while you adjust your coat. It is such an earnest, physical thing, this man using his whole self as a wall, that you have to look away for a second.
Inside, the lodge smells like woodsmoke, coffee, wet wool, and expensive soup.
Yuji checks in at the host stand for the fire pit reservation he claims was “casual,” despite the fact that he printed the confirmation and highlighted the time. You stand beside him, hand on your belly, watching a little boy in snow pants try to lick a decorative icicle while his father negotiates with him.
Then Yuji goes still.
You follow his line of sight.
Near the wide windows, a man with dark hair sits beside a pregnant woman wrapped in a cream scarf. His posture says he has calculated every exit and would prefer all of them. One hand rests behind the chair of the woman you assume is his wife. The other holds a mug while she talks with the waitress and smiles as if this whole place belongs to her by social right.
Yuji whispers, with deep workplace betrayal, “Fushiguro?”
The man looks up.
His face changes by maybe one millimeter, and somehow it communicates despair, accusation, and a resignation so old it may predate language.
Yuji lifts his hand.
Fushiguro’s wife notices, her smile widening.
“Oh,” you say. “He’s trying to escape.”
“That’s just his face,” Yuji says, already moving and taking you with him.
“Your coworker’s face is a hostage note.”
Yuji reaches their table with the confidence of a man who believes surprise social contact is a gift. “Fushiguro! What are you doing here?”
Megumi looks at him for half a second, then at the lodge around them. “Sitting.”
His wife laughs and taps his arm, murmuring something you can’t hear.
Yuji laughs too, delighted.
You arrive at your husband’s side and immediately feel Megumi’s panic redirect toward you because you are another person, another variable, another obstacle between him and whatever wife-only cave he had planned for the evening.
The woman beside him looks up at you warmly. “Hi. You must be Itadori’s wife.”
Yuji’s face softens. “You know me?”
“I know of you. Megumi mentioned a developer at work who once joined a budget meeting from a grocery store because his wife wanted peaches.”
You look at Yuji.
Yuji looks at Megumi.
Megumi takes a slow drink from his mug.
“You told people about the peaches?”
“I said the deployment timeline moved because you were in produce.”
“My wife needed peaches.”
Megumi’s wife brightens. “Was it canned peaches? I had that one for three weeks.”
You point at her with sudden relief. “Yes. Cold from the fridge, eaten standing up.”
“Fork or spoon?”
“Fork.”
She nods with the solemnity of a judge. “Texture control.”
“Exactly.”
Yuji watches this exchange with reverence. “Baby, you found your people.”
Megumi starts to stand. “We should let them get to their reserva—”
His wife touches his sleeve, and he sits back down.
You hide your smile in your scarf.
Yuji pulls out the empty chair like he has been invited by the universe itself. “We’re at the fire pit after this. You guys should come.”
Megumi’s face says his soul has begun hibernating.
His wife says, “That sounds nice.”
Megumi turns to her.
She turns to him with a sweet smile and one hand resting over her belly.
He folds immediately.
“Fine,” he says.
Yuji beams. “Great! Also, Fushiguro, while I have you, when you reviewed the vendor contract, did the indemnity clause seem weird to you? Because I was thinking about it in the train bathroom.”
Megumi closes his eyes.
You and Megumi’s wife look at each other.
A whole friendship forms in the space of that look.
“Yuji,” you say.
He turns. “Yeah?”
“You are at a mountain lodge with your pregnant wife, speaking to another man who clearly wanted to stare at his own pregnant wife in peace.”
Megumi’s wife laughs into her tea.
Megumi opens his eyes and looks at you with the first flicker of respect he has shown anyone except his wife.
Yuji processes the sentence. Then his face drops with real horror. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry.”
Megumi looks pained.
His wife pats his arm like he’s a lost bear she’s guiding home.
Yuji bows slightly, panicked and sincere. “I apologize.”
You put a hand over your stomach because laughing pulls at your side.
Megumi’s wife leans toward you. “How far along are you?”
“Seven months.”
“Same.”
Yuji points between the two of you. “Wait. Same? Same same?”
“Yuji,” Megumi says, voice flat.
“What? That’s cool. They’re belly mates.”
You stare at your husband.
Megumi’s wife presses her lips together, losing the fight.
Megumi looks toward the ceiling and takes a deep breath.
Outside, beyond the glass, the fire pits burn low and orange in the snow. The host comes to tell you your reservation is ready, and Yuji takes your tote, your gloves, and the cookie container Eileen gave him, then almost takes Megumi’s mug out of pure service instinct.
Megumi moves it away.
“Reflex,” Yuji chuckles, embarrassed.
At the fire pit, the four of you end up under two blankets because Yuji grabs the largest one and drapes it across both pregnant wives first, then realizes this has visually excluded the husbands from their own marriages.
His solution is to sit close enough to you that his thigh presses along yours while Megumi sits close enough to his wife that his shoulder becomes part of her chair.
The fire warms your boots. Snow crusts along the edge of the stone patio. Somewhere behind you, a family argues in whispers over marshmallows.
Yuji opens Eileen’s snickerdoodles and offers them around.
Megumi declines.
His wife takes one.
Megumi watches her eat half, then accepts the other half when she holds it to his mouth without looking.
You nudge Yuji.
He leans down instantly. “You okay?”
You hold up the last bite of your cookie.
His face softens.
He eats from your fingers, then kisses the cinnamon off your thumb, quick and warm so the others can’t see.
Across the fire, Megumi pretends he did not notice.
His wife absolutely notices.
You both smile into your respective cups.
Yuji settles back with his arm around you and his hand spread over the side of your belly. The baby kicks, firm and present.
He freezes.
You cover his hand.
“I felt her,” he whispers.
“I know.”
Megumi’s wife says, gently, “Mine does that when I sit near heat.”
Megumi’s hand drops to her stomach before he can think himself out of it.
“She likes the fire,” his wife says.
Megumi looks down at his hand, then at her face. “I’d rather be home with you and her.”
His wife rests her head against his shoulder. “You would’ve missed the fire.”
He looks down at her.
The complaint leaves his face.
Yuji watches him, then looks at you with the exact same helplessness, open and warm and embarrassing enough to make your chest ache.
He bends and presses his mouth to your temple, staying there while the fire pops and the snow gathers along the patio stones.
You look at the man who searched bear fights with half the words spelled wrong, who packed soup for you, who had been waking in the dark to check your breathing and pretending he only needed water.
You squeeze his hand. “You got today right.”
Yuji exhales against your hair.
Across the fire, Megumi starts trying to convince his wife they should leave before Yuji remembers the vendor contract. Megumi’s wife asks you about the train cinnamon rolls. Yuji is already reaching for another cookie to feed you, and his hand shakes only a little this time.
You open your mouth.
He feeds you.
Then you take the other half and feed him back.
The fire keeps burning, the lodge windows glow behind you, and your husband’s search history sits back at the cabin waiting to incriminate him again.
A/N: Ok, ok, hear me out. What if both their daughters grow up and start their rivals-to-lovers arc? Megumi would definitely threaten to kill Yuji. Like, how dare your span misguide my babygirl? hehe. Hope you guys enjoyed Alaska.
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Images are from Anime (S3)/Pinterest; the sparkling divider is from @pixopix, the trees are from @firefly-graphics, and the engagement banner is from @saradika-graphics.
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