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(ft. Fushiita, GoShoko, InuOoku, NobaMaki (all aged up to present day, 2026).)
16.7k | Explicit | Post-JJK AU
Summary: LOCAL WOMAN REMOVES ORANGE PITH. MAN WITH EIGHT YEARS OF REPRESSION IS SEEN MALFUNCTIONING LIKE A TESLA BECAUSE THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED.
Or, Nanami only comes to his own birthday camping trip because Gojo steals his keys. He plans to survive one hour, avoid the group photo & leave before anyone can make a speech. Then you hand him a plate exactly the way he likes it, Shoko says what everyone has been pretending not to know, & one bad photograph catches the truth before he can look away. + Other couples have their own moments.
Warnings: MDNI, Crack-Treated-Serious, Canon Divergence eight years Post-JJK (2026), eyepatch, facial scarring, body insecurity, chronic pain/knee pain, injury recovery, medical caretaking history, trauma aftermath, references to Shibuya/Mahito, reader with no verifiable family/past records, alcohol mention, adult former students now sorcerers/teachers, background ships, audible background voyeuristic sex (for petty reasons), One bed/hotel room, scar/body worship, eyepatch Nanami, emotional comfort, caretaking history, friends-to-lovers, mutual pining, Explicit sex, oral sex, face-fucking, gagging, titty-fucking, cumming on chest, fingering, cunnilingus, size kink, praise kink, pet names (good girl), tummy bulge, hand on throat/breath play, rough sex, overstimulation, marathon sex, multiple positions, missionary, cuddle-fucking, mating press, aftercare, protected sex, condom theft & mentions of morning-after pills (not for reader).
A/N: Happy birthday to my man, my man, my man, and also me for 2 years of fic writing. This is a well-awaited sequel to my first-ever fic, which I wrote on his birthday in 2024 & is finally an answer to the first-ever ask I got on Tumblr, based on an amazing ask from this anon. TBH this is the fluffiest fic I have ever written. Based on this event.
Nanami arrived at his own birthday camping trip late.
He had said he wouldn’t show up.
Then Gojo stole his car keys.
“You look nice, Nanamin!”
Yuji, twenty-four years old, called from the fold-out chair by the river, taller and broader now, older around the scars, with the same smile.
Nanami adjusted his eyepatch, damp with sweat under the strap. The burn scars pulled a little near his mouth when he answered, “You’ve grown into a terrible liar.”
Yuji laughed and carded his fingers through Megumi’s hair, where Megumi had dozed off against his knee.
You were by the picnic blanket, sleeves rolled up, turning skewers on the small grill while Nobara yelled at Inumaki over the paint set, one eye narrowed above the edge of her eyepatch, and Maki opened a jar with one hand better than most people could with both.
Panda had somehow been put in charge of the same fruit he'd been caught stealing earlier.
Gojo had been kept away from touching the food after he tried to “improve” the rice balls with frosting. You looked up when Nanami reached you.
“Hi,” you said, holding tongs in one hand. “You made it.”
“I was kidnapped.”
“You still came.”
“That is what kidnapping means.”
Your smile got bigger, and he pretended not to notice how easily that worked on him. Eight years, and he still acted as if your face had caught him off guard.
The first year after Shibuya had been the worst. You had arrived on the day he should have died with no past anyone could verify, both hands full of cursed energy and panic, and somehow dragged him to Shoko before death could finish making its case. He survived, but the burns still took his eye. Then you stayed through bandages and fever. From the first time he saw his face, he turned the mirror to the wall. Through every meal, he claimed he could cook for himself and then left it untouched—he had called you a nuisance. You still brought him soup the next mornings.
Now you handed him a plate before he even thought to ask, loaded with rice balls, grilled chicken, and orange slices without the white threads because he hated them. “You remembered,” he muttered as if it still somehow caught him by surprise after eight years.
You gave him a look. “I lived in your apartment for a year to care for you, Kento. I picked up things.”
Across the blanket, Gojo gasped. “He let you live with him? Kento, you slut.”
Nanami turned away. “I’m sitting with Yaga.”
“Yaga’s asleep,” Gojo grinned at Nanami, chucking the man his car keys back.
Nanami caught the car keys, muttered something passive-aggressive, and stomped away to check his tent.
“So,” Shoko turned back to you, red in the face from canned beer. “When are you two going to stop making the rest of us pretend this is friendship?”
Your hand stopped over the salad bowl, and Gojo’s grin went feral with interest. “Oh, this is good.”
“Shoko.”
“What?” Shoko tipped her can toward Nanami, who had come back for something and then gone still behind you. “You saved his life, fed him for a year, planned his every birthday since, and know he gets weird about orange pith. At some point, paperwork should get involved.”
You looked over your shoulder. Nanami glanced back. And for a second, the river was louder than everyone.
Then you turned to the salad and said, “The potatoes are burning.” They were not.
After that the late lunch passed in silence while you both avoided eye contact until Gojo called to take a group picture. “Everyone in,” he grinned, holding his phone too high. “Birthday boy in the middle before he starts pretending he has emails.”
“I do have emails,” Nanami grumbled.
“Your internet is working?” Maki asked.
Nanami did not answer, which was an answer. Then he already started creeping toward the edge of the group when you noticed his hand go to the strap of his eyepatch. You saw it before anyone else did—the way his mouth thinned where the scar tissue pulled from the old, ugly habit of remembering his face existed.
“I’ll take it,” you said, reaching for Gojo’s phone.
Gojo looked offended. “I have the longest arms.”
“You’ll make everyone look short.”
Shoko rubbed Gojo’s pant leg comfortingly because she was drunk enough to show emotions in public.
You ignored Gojo and waved everyone closer. Yuta ducked behind Panda. Yuji shoved Nobara’s elbow out of his ribs. Inumaki held up two rice balls like peace signs. Shoko stayed seated with her beer and lifted two fingers without moving. And the rest awkwardly gathered around. While Nanami tried to stand behind you.
You looked over your shoulder. “Kento.”
He stopped.
“Come here.”
His mouth shifted, almost not at all, but you knew that almost. You had known it in hospital rooms, in pharmacy aisles, and in his bathroom when he turned the mirror to face the wall and told you he did not need help shaving. But you never told him to smile or that he looked fine, nor did you tilt his face toward the unscarred side or pretend the scarred side was not there.
Nanami was too proud a man for those things.
He stepped closer, looking at you, maybe in a warning or a plea not to make a thing of it. So you didn’t and took the phone, herded everyone into place, and, when Nanami tried to stand at the edge, said, “Kento, hold this.” And handed him the paper plate with the two skewers on it.
He frowned. “Why?”
“Because if Gojo holds it, he’ll eat them.”
“I’m not a big back,” Gojo said, already chewing.
Nanami took the plate because it gave his hands somewhere to be and confused him enough to get distracted from his body.
“Fine, fine,” Gojo said, lifting the phone higher. “Everyone act like you like each other.”
“I don’t act,” Maki declared.
“That’s why we cherish you, Kiki-chan.”
Maki’s hand immediately lunged to yank Gojo’s hair back.
You only stepped beside Nanami when the others crowded in, your shoulder brushing his arm as it had in hospital corridors, Jujutsu Tech halls, his kitchen at three in the morning, and every quiet place where he had tried to become awful so you’d leave him alone but failed because you kept coming back with groceries. “Ready?”
Nanami looked down at you, and for one second, his face shifted again—less alone, maybe. “Yes,” he answered. Then he turned his head at the last second because you chuckled when Shoko pinched Gojo’s cheeks—your eyes bright, one hand caught at Nanami’s sleeve, like you had done it without thinking.
The shutter clicked.
The picture happened in the middle of everyone laughing, talking, or yelling.
When you lowered the phone, Gojo took it back, glanced at the screen, and said, much softer than usual, “Oh.”
Nanami reached for the phone thinking Gojo was about to make fun of him. But then he saw the picture and realized he was not looking at the camera at all. Not even facing it.
He was looking at you.
The angle had hidden most of the eyepatch from view. His face was turned far enough that the scarred side fell into shadow, but that was the first thing his mind usually reached for, out of habit since Shibuya.
Then he followed his gaze in the picture and saw you.
You were smiling like the whole noisy riverside had narrowed to the space between your hand on his sleeve and his shoulder beside yours without any careful softness meant to spare him. Instead it was happiness, plain and unguarded—caught before either of you could hide it.
Nanami stared too long, and Gojo, for once, did not ruin it.
You too leaned closer, looking at the screen. “Oh.”
Nanami’s thumb squeezed against the edge of the phone.
“I look ridiculous,” you said, staring at something else.
“No,” he answered, too quickly.
You looked up at him.
His ears were faintly red. “You look…” He stopped. Everyone was still close enough to hear, and dignity was a habit even when it no longer saved him.
Gojo’s grin started spreading menicingly.
Nanami locked the phone and handed it back. “Send that to me.”
Gojo’s eyebrows climbed. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.”
Shoko slapped his arm. “Satoru.” And Nanami thought she would be the voice of reason, but he’d forgotten the woman was drunk. “Let him do the Fushiguro thing in peace.”
Megumi looked up from where Yuji was showing him the backup photo his phone had taken from where it was propped against the cooler. “What thing?”
Gojo’s grin changed targets with speed. “Oh, you don’t know?”
Nanami had never been happier for Gojo’s lack of attention span.
Yuji zoomed in the picture on his phone before Megumi. And low and behold, in the corner of the photo, Megumi was looking at Yuji.
It wasn’t near him or past him but directly at him, with a small smile he clearly had no memory of making.
Nobara leaned over Yuji’s shoulder and made a noise of pure disgusted delight. “Oh, that’s embarrassing.”
“It was an accident,” Megumi snapped, snatching the phone away.
“You do this in every picture,” Panda laughed.
“I do not.”
Inumaki, already scrolling, turned his own phone around to show an old photo from their trip to Osaka.
Megumi lunged for it too, but Gojo caught the back of his shirt without even looking.
Yuji smiled traitorously. “You stare at me?”
“I was checking your surroundings.”
“By staring at my sleeping face in a locked train compartment?”
Megumi went red to the ears and tried to get Inumaki again. “Give me the phone.”
Gojo, delighted, lifted it out of reach.
Yuji leaned into Megumi’s shoulder, warm and shameless. “That’s cute.”
Megumi flicked the back of his head. “It’s not.”
Yuji rubbed the back of his own head but continued to grin dumbly.
Megumi covered Yuji’s face with one hand. “I’m going to kill all of you.”
“I’m sending it,” Gojo said to Nanami, still grinning, but he did not say anything else about the way Nanami had looked at you.
Your phone buzzed first. Then Nanami’s.
---
After dinner and the cake—which had been cut badly by Gojo while he was trying to get the biggest piece for himself and fixed by Maki’s blade—was eaten, everyone spread out. Nobara and Maki vanished into the woods with one lantern and two blankets. Shoko drank by the fire, her feet in Gojo’s lap while he massaged them and argued with her about the terms of their bet. Ijichi snored in a chair. Panda and Yaga were talking over roasted marshmallows. Inumaki and Yuta were catching fish in the dark with too much confidence. Far down the river, Yuji walked with Megumi, their shoulders bumping.
“Sensei’s sitting alone again,” Yuji said, nodding toward you by the water.
Megumi followed his gaze. “Nanami-san will go.”
“You think?”
“He has been watching her for twenty minutes.”
Yuji grinned. “They’re so married for people who say, ‘we’re just friends.’”
Megumi shoved his hands in his pockets. “He looks at her a lot.”
“She knows how he takes his coffee and practically everything he likes and dislikes.”
“He keeps pain medicine in his office for her cramps. Asked me to fetch it last time.”
“You know she bought him that ugly beige camping mug.”
Megumi’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t look at Yuji when his arm slid around his waist casually. “He says it was a practical gift.”
Yuji laughed and leaned into Megumi’s side. “The man is down bad in business casual.”
“You would know,” Megumi mildly smirked.
Yuji’s grin widened. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re holding my waist while saying that, so it’s not nothing.”
Megumi looked away toward the river, where the lantern light caught the scars cutting across his own face: one near his left temple and eye, the other paler on the opposite side, half-lost when he ducked his head. “You were walking too close to the water.”
Yuji looked delighted by this.
Megumi’s hand tightened once at his side before Yuji could start testing him. “Shut up.”
Farther downriver, Yuta lifted the lantern higher while Inumaki crouched near the bank, one sleeve pinned and empty where his other arm used to be. The light caught the stitches across Yuta’s forehead when he bent too close, watching Inumaki’s face again instead of the water.
“Salmon,” Inumaki warned without looking up.
Yuta straightened immediately. “Right. Sorry.”
Inumaki glanced back at him, eyes soft above his collar, then pointed at the river like Yuta had been the one scaring the tiny fish away.
Yuji followed Megumi’s gaze and smiled softer this time. “Everyone’s kind of obvious tonight.”
Megumi huffed a small laugh. “You’re one to talk.”
“Huh?”
“You were staring at me in the picture too.”
“I can admit that…" Yuji’s grin went soft around the scar cutting through his lip. “Maybe I like looking at you.”
Megumi looked away first, jaw working like he wanted to argue and couldn’t find anything worth saying. The distant lantern light caught the scars near his left temple and eye before he leaned in closer, his hand moving lower on Yuji’s waist. “Shut up,” he muttered, eyes dropping to Yuji’s mouth as he dragged him closer. “Come here.”
Yuji’s hands fisted in Megumi’s hoodie as he glanced back toward camp. “What if someone sees?”
“We’re not fifteen anymore,” Megumi whispered near his ear, moving Yuji’s face back toward him with a careful hand. “And everybody here has seen far worse things than grown adults kissing.”
Yuji laughed under his breath, his breath warm against Megumi’s mouth. “That’s true.”
Megumi pushed him back against the nearest tree to get them out of the path where the firelight could reach. His hand slipped under the hem of Yuji’s hoodie and settled burning at his waist.
Yuji stayed still for half a breath.
Megumi felt it because he’d trained himself to trace the tiny delay before Yuji remembered where he was. The way his body sometimes braced for bad things before his mind caught up, like some old part of him was still waiting for another voice in his head.
Megumi’s thumb tapped into his skin.
Yuji continued to stare at nothing.
Megumi rubbed his skin again, gentler, and Yuji’s shoulders loosened. “Sorry,” he murmured.
“Don’t be.”
Yuji looked at him.
“Don’t apologize for that,” Megumi said, with his eyes dropping briefly to the scar through Yuji’s lip before returning to his face. “Just stay here.”
Yuji’s smile came back. “Bossy.”
“Yeah.” His hand stayed where it was, and for a second, Megumi thought about the stupid unfairness of it. Nanami could give someone things and call it practical. Gojo could make a public nuisance of himself with Shoko and somehow still have the world bend around it. But what Megumi wanted with Yuji, something with same surnames, still had to be phrased around loopholes, paperwork, and whichever court felt generous enough to recognize it.
He would still ask anyway.
Just not tonight. Tonight was someone else's.
But Megumi would ask soon. And Yuji would make some awful noise when he realized. Might laugh first, then cry after, then ask, ‘Are you sure?’ Like Fushiguro Megumi hadn’t built his whole life around being sure of very few things, and selfishly choosing Itadori Yuji every day wasn’t always going to be top of them.
Megumi hooked his thumb in Yuji’s belt loop, keeping him close. “Besides,” he said, lower now, eyes dropping to Yuji’s mouth, “it’s easier to appreciate you in the dark.”
Yuji’s smile got warmer. “Oh.”
“Yeah,” Megumi muttered, having difficulty taking his eyes off Yuji’s lips. “Oh.”
Yuji’s gaze flicked once toward the firelight, then back to him. “You gonna use your technique, bro?”
“Don’t—” Megumi’s ears went red, but he knew to suppress his reaction because he knew that Yuji said dumb things when flustered or nervous or excited—pretty much all the time. “Don’t make it sound weird.”
“You’re the one who said it.”
“I meant so no one sees you panic every time someone walks past.”
Yuji’s smile softened at the edges.
“And yeah,” Megumi’s other thumb brushed against Yuji’s lips and his scar, and he added, quieter. “Only if you want.”
Yuji stared at his mouth and at the broader line of Megumi’s shoulders, where he crowded him against the tree without actually pinning him there. “Yeah,” it came easily, his breath catching around the word. “I—ah—want you to.”
The shadow at Megumi’s feet started to gather around them, darkening the space between the tree and the river until the campfire disappeared into a dark blur through the leaves.
Yuji let out a small, nervous laugh. “That’s kind of hot.”
Megumi closed his eyes and kissed him before Yuji could make the moment difficult by being sweet.
Yuji wrapped both arms around him because Yuji had never learned how to accept small things from Megumi without giving his whole body back.
---
Back by the river, you sat with your feet near the water, your lantern beside you. The paper plate on your lap held a slice of cake you had barely touched.
Nanami stopped beside you. “May I sit?”
“It’s your day.” You smiled up at him.
“I was told I’m allowed very little free will today.”
“That’s because you were trying to ditch your own birthday party.” You moved your plate, and he sat on the grass with a careful breath. His knee clicked. You reached into the bag beside you to hand him the small cushion you had packed.
He stared at it.
“For your knee,” you told him. “Take it before I throw it at you.”
He took it, and for a while, you both just watched the river pull silver lines around the stones.
“I heard Shoko,” he murmured.
“I figured.”
“I should have answered.”
You picked at the cake with your fork. “You don’t owe people an answer about me.”
“I owe you one.”
Your hand stilled for half a second before going back to picking at the cake.
Nanami looked down at his plate, keeping his scarred side half out of the lantern light.
“I wanted to spend today alone. That was the plan. A quiet mountain cabin. Sandwich from a shop. A book I would barely read.”
You nodded.
“Then you sent a list of food. A map. A reminder about sunscreen. Then seven messages about whether I could still eat spicy sauce.”
“You can’t.”
“I can. It just comes with regret.” His mouth curved a little.
Then he sighed. “I was annoyed. Then I looked forward to it all week.”
Your throat worked around a small laugh that came out thin. “You’re bad at gratitude.”
“I’m worse at friendship, apparently.”
You finally looked at him. He met your eyes, and this time he didn’t look away first. “You were there when I was hard to be near. Then I made it harder. I knew you would come back, so I let myself be careless with your feelings.”
Your fork dug into the cake because you didn’t know what to say to that. Some small part of you tried to make sense of it before you could hope. Pity, obligation, eight years of habit, his loneliness finding the nearest person who already knew where the medicine was kept.
Then Nanami reached into his jacket, pulled out a small box wrapped in brown paper and tied with kitchen string, and handed it to you. “I bought this months ago,” he whispered. “Just kept waiting for a dignified moment.”
You opened it.
A key sat inside, along with a tiny wooden tag carved with your name.
Your breath caught and you looked up at him. “Is this because you feel responsible for me?”
His answer came too fast to be polite. “No.”
Then he lowered his voice. “I would like you to come home.” His voice roughened at the edges. “As mine. In whatever order you can accept. Girlfriend first, if that is easier. Partner. Wife, someday, if you can forgive the delay. If you still want that after we learn how to stop pretending.”
Your palm pressed to your mouth.
He looked alarmed. “Was that too much?”
You laughed into your palm. “Kento, you gave me a house key as a birthday gift on your birthday.”
“It seemed practical.”
“You are so stupid.”
“Yes,” he smiled, softer now. “I am aware.”
You leaned over and kissed the scarred side of his mouth before he could brace for it, his skin warm against your lips.
Behind you, from across the camp, Gojo screamed, “PAY UP, SHOKO!”
You smiled against him.
He sighed, warm and beaten. “I should have invited you to the mountains.” His hand closed over yours, and he kept the key pressed between both your palms.
Gojo’s voice carried across the camp again, loud enough to make bats startle somewhere in the trees. “SHOKO, YOU CAN’T CHANGE THE TERMS AFTER THE KISS. MY SIX EYES CONFIRMED IT.”
“I can do whatever I want,” Shoko called back, flat and drunk. “Your first choice is dead.”
The camp went still for half a second.
Then Gojo shouted, “Take that back.”
“I meant I’m the only doctor you idiots have.”
“WE HAVE MY GOOD STUDENT YUTA NOW.”
Yuta immediately grabbed Inumaki’s sleeve and started dragging him farther downriver.
“I did surgery on him. And you. I’m superior.”
“YAGA, SHE’S BULLYING ME AGAIN.”
Nanami closed his eye. “Ignore them.”
You laughed softly, and the sound made his hand tighten around yours. You were still too close to him, leaving small pecks against the scarred side of his lips. The little wooden tag pressed into your palm, your name carved into it like a promise. “Kento.”
“Yes?” He hummed.
“I’d like to come home with you.”
He went still.
You looked down at your joined hands because saying it while looking at his face would have made your voice crack. “Not tonight. I mean, obviously, but I mean properly. I want to move in. I want to start dating. I want…”
Nanami’s face changed slowly, like watching the door open after standing outside with his hand raised for years. “Girlfriend first,” he added, quieter.
You nodded.
“Partner when you are ready.”
You looked up at him. “I’m not the only one who has to be ready.”
He lowered his gaze, thumb moving over your knuckles, careful around the key. “I have been ready in undignified ways for some time.”
Your smile broadened. “That might be the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”
He gave you half a smile. “Hope it’s not the last. I intend to do better.”
“You’d better.”
He looked toward the river because smiling at you too openly still cost him.
You remembered his face before Shibuya only in fragments now: old photographs, mission reports.
This was the face you knew better. “I do need time,” you admitted. “For the move, I mean. I have things at my apartment, clothes, books, souvenirs, the kettle you said was a fire hazard.”
“It was a fire hazard.”
You smiled down at the key. “I’ll bring the kettle last.”
“I will dispose of it humanely.”
You slapped his arm lightly. “You will not.”
“I will hire someone.” He sounded like he was going to get someone from the dark web.
“Kento.”
His mouth curved, small so that nobody across the camp would have noticed. You did because you had always noticed him in the margins.
He glanced down at your plate. “You did not eat your cake.”
“I got proposed to by a man who doesn’t know if he asked me to be his girlfriend or his wife. I don’t care about the cake right now.”
His expression sharpened with immediate concern. “Do you want something else?”
“No. I’m teasing you.”
“I still need an answer.”
You loved him for that. In his dry insistence, he could be given a kiss, a key accepted, and a future placed in his hand and still worry about your blood sugar before his own feelings. “I’m okay,” you answered. “Just tired.”
That, he believed. Then he stood with effort, offered you his hand, and you let him pull you up. His knee bothered him. You knew the exact stiffness in his jaw that meant it had started to ache.
“You should go back. Before Gojo remembers he has lungs and yells again.”
“He never forgets.”
“No. He simply uses them irresponsibly.”
He walked you back through the camp slowly. The fire had sunk low. Shoko was laughing at something Gojo was saying too close to her ear, her cheeks flushed from beer, one hand resting on the back of his neck as if she’d put it there to keep him from running off into the dark. Yaga and Ijichi had already retreated to their tents on the far end of the site. Panda lay outside his father’s tent with one paw over his face, asleep under the stars with a plushy like a log and snoring as one.
You saw Nanami notice all of it.
Nobara and Maki had not come back. Neither had Megumi and Yuji. Inumaki and Yuta were still missing somewhere downriver with the lantern and the knife, which you chose not to examine too closely.
At your tent, Nanami stopped. The zipper was halfway open. Inside, your blanket had been kicked into a pile, your overnight bag still unlatched, clothes spilling out because Nobara had insisted she could style you for glamping and then abandoned the project the second Maki called her name.
“I’ll see you in the morning,” Nanami told you.
“You’re not going to make sure I’m zipped inside so a bear won't attack me at night?”
“There are no bears here.”
“You looked up bears before coming here?”
“I know you would have.”
“Touché,” you said, stepping into the tent. “Good night, boyfriend.”
The word sank in him for the first time.
He stood there for half a second longer than necessary, his expression caught inside something softer. Then he bowed his head once, because Nanami Kento had no available defense against being called yours except good manners.
“Good night,” he repeated, lower this time. Then he walked back to his tent with red ears.
You waited until his silhouette disappeared past the fire before you looked at the key again.
You did not sleep but lay on your back under the thin blanket, phone held above your face, the key box sitting on your stomach because you just couldn't put it away tonight.
Outside, the river moved, leaves shifted, someone’s tent zipper caught, and bamboo wind chimes knocked softly near the picnic shelter.
You opened your messages.
You: I should probably ask what your move-in requirements are before I accidentally bring the fire-hazard kettle.
His reply came so fast that your chest warmed.
Kento: The kettle is not entering my home.
You: Is it not mine?
There was a pause long enough for you to worry you had made it too much too fast, even though it had been eight years.
Then his typing bubble appeared.
Kento: Our home. The kettle is still not entering it.
You covered your mouth with your hand.
You: Cruel landlord.
Kento: Boyfriend. Possibly partner. Future husband, if I do not lose the position over fire safety.
You stared at the message until the letters blurred at the edges.
Outside, Gojo laughed somewhere, quieter than usual. Shoko told him to shut up in a voice that had no real conviction behind it.
You: You’re very confident about future husband.
Kento: I have been accused of waiting too long. I am correcting the record.
You: By proposing an entire life on your birthday.
Kento: It seemed practical. I deserved a gift, and you deserved something permanent for planning this day and everything before it.
You: I’m going to bite you.
Kento: That is not a logistical concern.
The squeal you made into your blanket was embarrassing and muffled. You rolled onto your side, holding the phone close to your face.
You: I keep thinking I’ll wake up and you’ll decide this was fever brain.
Kento: I am not feverish.
You: The key is beautiful, and my name carved into it looks good.
Kento: I had a professional do that. (It was Megumi.)
You realized he didn't want anyone to spoil it.
You: That makes it sweet, actually.
Kento: I am aware.
The next message came after a long moment of his typing bubble appearing and disappearing and reappearing.
Kento: I wanted you to have something that could not be mistaken.
Your throat tightened. All the noise outside seemed to move further away. Even the river sounded softer from inside the tent.
You: Kento.
Kento: You have had very little permanence since you came here.
You stopped breathing for a second.
Kento: No family records or household. No one to call if something went wrong who belonged to you before this world took you in. You have made a life anyway. I know that. I am proud of that. But I wanted you to have a door that opened because your name belonged there.
You pressed the phone to your chest and stared at the dark fabric of the tent roof.
Untethered.
You hated that word. It made drifting sound graceful.
Gojo and Ijichi had made you legal enough for payroll, rent, hospital forms, and mission reports, but none of it reached backward. There were still blank spaces where parents should have gone. No childhood address. No family name that meant anything here. No one who could say what you were like before this world took you in.
You had caught yourself envying the students for ugly things: clan fights, dead relatives, living relatives, inheritance arguments, grief with names attached. At least someone had known them before.
Jujutsu Tech gave you a file. Shoko gave you headache medicine before you asked. Gojo bought things you never requested and called it community support. The others made room for you without making speeches.
And Kento.
Kento with the second phone charger he pretended came in a pack of two. Kento whose apartment had become the only place your body slept properly. And now he was saying your name belonged on the door.
You typed and deleted six different replies.
You: I don’t know how to say what that means to me without sounding pathetic.
Kento: You have listened to me say “girlfriend first, partner, wife someday” beside a river. I no longer have grounds to judge anyone’s process.
You laughed, but it broke halfway into a few tears.
You: I didn’t think I’d get to be someone’s family officially here. I know that sounds stupid because people choose each other all the time, but I didn’t think it would happen to me. Especially not with someone who knows I drink coffee like it counts as water.
Kento: It does not.
You: I’m being vulnerable. You can be nice.
Kento: You are. I am keeping you grounded.
You: By attacking my coffee?
Kento: By reminding you that I know it.
You blinked hard, looking for the right emoji to express your distaste.
Kento: When you first appeared, I was suspicious of you.
You: Romantic.
Kento: You had no file, no verifiable history, and enough cursed energy to drag a half-dead man out of Mahito’s grasp. Suspicion seemed reasonable.
You: Still romantic.
Kento: I was also afraid you would disappear the same way you arrived.
You did not know what to say to that.
Kento: I expected someone to explain you eventually as a curse, technique, or a temporary consequence of some larger cruelty. I thought if I became too accustomed to you, the world would correct itself and take you back.
Your fingers hovered above the keyboard.
Kento: Then you stayed. Argued with my pharmacist, replaced the mirror I turned to the wall with one too small for me to avoid entirely. You even left soup at my door after I called you a nuisance. You became domestic before I was ready for you to be irreplaceable.
The tent blurred. You wiped at your face with the heel of your hand and nearly dropped the phone.
You: You can’t say things like this over text.
Kento: I can say them outside your tent if you would prefer.
Your whole body went warm.
You: Oh lord no.
Kento: Understood.
You: I mean yes? Or no. I mean I’m wearing an old shirt and crying.
Kento: I have seen worse.
You: You are so bad at this.
Kento: Noted. I will improve.
You smiled into the dark. Then his next message came.
Kento: If things become too dangerous again, I need you to understand something.
You sat up.
Kento: I will not let Jujutsu society decide what happens to you. I have given enough of my life to institutions that eat people and call it duty. If the choice is between staying and keeping you safe, I will take you and leave.
You reread that message, a mix of emotions swirling inside you and choking in your throat.
You: You mean that?
Kento: Yes.
You: But you love your work.
Kento: I love being able to help where I can. That is not the same thing.
You: And if I say I don’t want you giving everything up for me?
Kento: Then we will discuss it like adults. And I will still keep the car maintained.
It was just so like him, devotion inside an emergency plan.
You were still staring at the message when another sound came from outside.
At first, Nanami ignored it.
In his own tent, sitting upright with his back against a rolled sleeping bag because lying down had proved useless, he heard canvas shift from the direction of Gojo’s tent and assumed the man was awake.
Which was not unusual. Satoru rarely slept like other people. Three hours, sometimes less, then he would wander the halls of the school or appear in kitchens, bright-eyed and awake past reason, eating someone else’s food and pretending insomnia was a lifestyle choice.
Nanami typed another message, thumb moving carefully.
Kento: For clarity, I am not planning to take your choice away. I am saying you have one with me now. If something like Shibuya happens. If we need to leave, we leave together.
The shuffling continued. A soft thump. A rustle. Then something like a hand catching against tent fabric.
Nanami paused. Then resumed typing because whatever Gojo Satoru did at night was between him, God, and the nearest vending machine.
Kento: I should have told you earlier. Years ago.
A muffled laugh came from the other tent.
Shoko’s.
Nanami’s typing slowed. Another rustle followed, lower this time, rhythmic enough that his mind and his technique, traitorous and precise, started assembling possibilities he did not want.
No. Absolutely not.
Satoru would not.
Nanami stared at the wall of his tent.
Then a muffled sentence came through canvas and night air, Satoru’s voice far too pleased with itself to be mistaken for sleep talking.
Nanami closed his eye. And for several seconds, he sat very still.
Satoru wouldn't do that. Wouldn't traumatize his students like that, would he?
And there were students nearby.
Former students, yes. Grown adults now, all of them old enough to drink, vote, kill curses, and make bad decisions in forests. But still. They had been children once. Children Satoru had bequeathed and taught. Children Nanami had, against his will and better judgment, worried about.
Except Nobara and Maki had disappeared into the trees hours ago. Megumi and Yuji had walked off in opposite direction around the same time—even their cursed energies weren't within a detectable radius now. Inumaki and Yuta had not returned from whatever fishing ritual required one knife and an alarming amount of staring contest. Panda slept like a boulder on the other side of camp. Yaga slept like a dead man with a pension. Ijichi slept like a person who had spent fifteen years being emotionally waterboarded by Gojo Satoru and could sleep through artillery if it meant nobody needed him.
So Satoru was traumatizing no one he cared about except Nanami.
Oh, but wait… Ijichi.
Nanami’s eye opened. That was it, wasn't it?
Satoru had pointed out, years ago to Kento, the way Ijichi hovered around Shoko with the doomed attentiveness of a man bringing coffee to a woman miles out of his league. Had mocked him for it, interfered with it, sabotaged it, and once bought him a book on “assertive romantic communication” that Ijichi had accepted with both hands and visible despair. The book contained the worst possible advice, such as shaving your head made you more aerodynamic for dates.
That was not poor judgment.
It was Satoru declaring territory.
Nanami put on his headphones. Then his gaze dropped to his phone.
You were in the tent near his—awake, emotional, and his to care for. And you could probably hear this. His thumb moved before he had fully decided.
Kento: Pack your bag.
Your reply came quickly.
You: what
Kento: Quietly. Ten minutes. Meet me just outside the campsite entrance.
You: Kento what happened
He glanced toward the canvas wall as another sound reached him.
Kento: Satoru.
A momentary pause.
You: oh my god
Kento: Yes.
You: shoko?????
Kento: Unfortunately.
You: is everyone else asleep
Kento: Gone, asleep, or morally unreachable.
You: what does morally unreachable mean?
Kento: Panda.
You: Kento I can’t just flee a campsite because Gojo and Shoko are having sex
Kento: I can. Pack.
You were outside in eight minutes after having packed so quickly that even your bag was zipped wrong and your hair had come loose around your face.
Nanami was already waiting near the entrance sign with his overnight bag in one hand. His hair was mussed from where he had dragged his fingers through it, and his eyepatch strap sat a little crooked. He looked you over once, checking that you had your shoes, your bag, yourself, then said, “My car is nearby. There is a hotel ten minutes from here. We will return in the morning.”
You followed him to the car. He opened the passenger door for you, and you hid a smile because he had always done that, even before tonight, even when he could still pretend it was only manners. Now the same small gesture felt claimed. He shut the door once you were inside, walked around to the driver’s side, and started the engine.
Neither of you spoke for the first few minutes of the drive. The road out of the campsite was narrow and dark, trees pressing close on either side. Nanami drove with one hand on the wheel, his profile lit by the dashboard glow. The eyepatch hid one side of him. The scars caught in uneven lines. You watched his hand shift, steady on the gear, and remembered the way it had held yours around the key. Halfway to the hotel, his expression changed.
“What?” you asked.
He looked horrified. “Have you been drinking?”
You stared. “What?”
“At the camp. Shoko was giving everyone beer. Gojo had that terrible sweet alcohol. You were emotional. I should have asked before taking you anywhere.”
“I had half a canned peach thing four hours ago.”
His jaw tightened. “That is not an answer.”
“It was barely alcohol.”
“That is also not an answer.”
“Kento, I am not drunk.”
“You were crying.”
“Forgive a girl for being emotional after pining after a guy for eight years then suddenly being pulled out of the friend zone.”
He opened his mouth. “That was not—" Then he realized better and closed it. His grip eased slightly on the wheel, and he tried again. “That was not intended to impair judgment.”
“Well, it did.”
“Then I shouldn’t have sent the texts.”
“I didn’t say that.” You leaned your head against the window, smiling despite the ache in your chest. “I’m sober. Just feeling happy because you accidentally became my whole life and then asked me that we could stop pretending.”
He swallowed. The car stayed very quiet after that.
At the hotel, Nanami carried both bags, and you let him because arguing with him in the lobby would have turned him into stone.
The receptionist looked at the two of you—your rumpled clothes, his serious face, the bags, the hour—and made a decision behind her polite smile.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “We only have one room available.”
Summary: Officer Gojo Satoru is the city’s miracle—missing kids found, cameras fed, medals polished. Five years ago, he brought home a vampire instead of a body.
Warnings: Heavy Angst, Dead Dove Do Not Eat, Alternate Universe - Vampire/Vampire Hunters, Yandere!Gojo Satoru, Dark!Gojo Satoru, Corrupt Police, Kidnapping, Abduction, Captivity, Imprisonment, Captor/Captive, Hostage Situations, Non-Consensual Touching, Dubious Consent, Sexual Coercion, Rape/Non-Con Elements, Emotional Manipulation, Gaslighting, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Unhealthy Relationships, Power Imbalance, Obsessive/Possessive Behavior, Mind Games, Trauma Bonding, Stockholm Syndrome, Domestic Captivity, Forced Dependency, Surveillance, Isolation, Non-Con Human-Vampire Relationship, Humiliation, Praise Kink, Pet Names, Voyeurism, Blood Drinking, Not Beta Read. WC: 4.4k Oneshot.
A/N: I had @/Crispy_eve's (on X) GoChoso fanart sitting in my bookmarks for years, so I finally gave in and wrote the thing today.
The city adored Officer Gojo Satoru.
Today, it’s the skyline.
A six–story smile stretched across downtown glass and steel. White hair lit like a saint’s halo.
Gojo guided a mother forward until she collapsed into her son.
Gojo laughed when reporters asked how he did it.
“Good instincts,” he said, tapping his temple. “And I hate loose ends.”
Flashbulbs. Applause. The city ate it up.
That same night, two patrol officers hauled a gaunt man out of a fourth-floor walkup. Wrists cuffed, face pressed to peeling drywall. Gojo stood in the corridor, scrolling through his phone while the man shouted about warrants and wrong addresses.
One officer hesitated. “Sir, the unit number—”
Gojo didn’t look up. “Check again.”
The man kept screaming.
The door shut.
Gojo slipped his phone into his pocket and glanced at the peephole camera across the hall, smiling at it.
Vampires stopped trending years earlier.
When the hunts began, the news ran nothing else. Blurry red eyes caught in security footage. Bodies drained in alleys. Panels argued about extinction versus coexistence.
Now the language was cleaner. Containment. Sanitation. Infrastructure protection.
The task force didn’t exist on paper.
On paper, Officer Gojo specialized in missing persons.
He preferred the word “curation.”
It was raining when the calls came in. Not mist but real rain, heavy and sour with exhaust.
Gojo’s private line vibrated once.
“Sector Nine,” the voice said. “Thermal spike. Third floor. Probably a stray.”
Gojo was already heading toward it.
Sector Nine was condemned housing, waiting for demolition. Windows shattered, stairwells sagged, hallways stripped to bone. Good shelter for something that didn’t need heat.
He went in alone.
The front door hung open. Inside smelled like rot and old iron.
Upstairs, a floorboard shifted.
Gojo paused at the top of the stairs. Listened. There was a difference between hunger and discipline. Most of them forgot themselves the moment they sensed him.
This one didn’t.
A door at the end of the corridor stood half open. Moonlight spilled through the broken window beyond it, cutting the room in cold silver.
A figure stood near the glass.
Tall. Dark hair damp at the ends. Long coat heavy with rain. Pale skin caught amethyst in the light.
Red eyes lifted.
They didn’t widen.
They narrowed.
“You are trespassing,” the stranger said. His voice was level. Almost courteous.
Gojo stepped inside as if invited. “You are on borrowed property.”
The vampire didn’t bare his teeth. He just shifted his weight slightly, angling his body between Gojo and the hallway.
Protecting an exit.
“Leave.”
Gojo’s smile deepened. “Name.”
Silence.
“Fine.” He rolled his shoulders once. “You know who I am.”
“Yes.”
No tremor. No awe.
That steadiness landed heavier than fear.
The vampire moved without warning—past him, not toward him. A blur for the door.
Gojo caught fabric mid-stride. The coat tore. The vampire pivoted, elbow driving hard into Gojo’s jaw.
Bone met bone. Gojo’s lip split.
He laughed, low and pleased.
The vampire’s fangs descended, not in a snarl but in warning. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Rain slammed against broken glass.
Gojo wiped blood from his mouth with his thumb and looked at the smear. “That’s unfortunate.”
The hallway lights flickered as a searchlight swept past the windows outside.
The vampire’s attention shifted for half a second.
Gojo didn’t waste it.
A stun device cracked against the vampire’s ribs. Electricity snapped across pale skin. Muscles locked. The air filled with the sharp scent of ozone.
He didn’t fall.
Red eyes snapped back to warm dark browns.
The vampire’s hand closed around Gojo’s wrist mid-current. Fingers tightened. For a breath, they froze in place, rain hammering the night apart around them.
“Why do you hunt us?” the vampire asked.
“I hunt everything.”
Another surge.
This time the vampire dropped to one knee. Forced.
Electricity crawled over his skin and faded, leaving him upright by force alone.
Gojo crouched slowly in front of him, unhurried. Rain blew through the broken window behind them, cold drops striking the floor in uneven taps.
He reached out and brushed the wet hair from the vampire’s face with the back of his fingers.
Up close, he studied him carefully. Cheekbones. The line of his mouth. The restraint sitting tight in his jaw.
“Pretty,” he murmured, almost to himself.
His fingers drifted lower, mapping the cold elegance of the vampire’s cheek. Gojo’s superiors preached distance, warning against letting human hands linger near a predator’s throat.
Gojo rested his thumb there deliberately, preferring the quiet thrill of it, calling it proof that even monsters could pause inside a mortal’s grasp.
The vampire tried to turn his face away.
Gojo caught his chin and forced it back.
A sharp crack split the room as his palm met pale skin. The sound ricocheted off concrete.
The vampire’s head snapped sideways.
But he didn’t bare his teeth. Didn’t lunge.
He steadied himself.
Gojo smiled, softer now. “You are choosing not to fight me?”
The vampire’s jaw tightened under his grip. “I don’t kill humans.”
No sermon, not even pride.
Just a boundary.
How odd.
Gojo’s expression shifted—something bright and feverish slipping beneath it. “How inconvenient.”
His hand moved into the vampire’s hair, tangling in the dark strands. He gripped firmly, possessive, tilting his head back to expose his throat fully.
“For you.”
The vampire’s eyes flashed red.
Gojo leaned closer, voice lowering to something intimate and edged. “You think that makes you better?” His thumb pressed lightly against the vampire’s mouth, tracing the shape of his lower lip. “It just makes you easy to take.”
Another surge of voltage.
The world fractured white.
Choso didn’t remember the rest.
The official report listed a raccoon.
Sector Nine was cleared by morning. Demolition proceeded on schedule.
Five years passed.
The city’s affection only grew.
Officer Gojo was promoted, decorated, rebranded as the face of reform. His house sat on a quiet street with trimmed hedges and a fence that looked aggressively harmless.
Inside, the curtains stayed drawn.
Choso stood at the kitchen counter with his sleeves pushed to his elbows, slicing fruit he wouldn’t eat. Climate control ran low. Windows were UV-filtered. The doors locked from the inside without keys. His kitchen knife moved cleanly, evenly.
Choso kept the rhythm even when the house hummed too loudly.
There were no mirrors in the main rooms.
Gojo said they ruined the lighting.
A chipped mug rested by the sink. World’s Best Dad.
Choso never asked.
The front door beeped. The lock slid open with its soft mechanical sigh.
He kept his back to it.
“Missed me?” Gojo sang, stepping in like he owned Choso. Like the world parted politely for him on the drive home. “Traffic was brutal. You’d think public service would’ve gotten me better lanes.”
Choso stared at the cutting board. The carrots blurred at the edges. He set the knife down before his hands shook. "You're late.”
A pause. Shoes against tile. Fabric whispering. Gojo’s presence filled the kitchen before he even touched him.
A sealed medical bag landed on the counter. Dark red shifted inside.
“Blood’s clean,” Gojo said lightly. “Mostly.”
Choso nodded once.
He kept his eyes on the cutting board.
Not the bag. Not the red shifting inside it. Especially not Gojo.
He figured that out early. Eye contact turned into curiosity. Curiosity turned into small talk. Small talk slipped.
Slips turned into names.
Yuji. Eso. Kechizu.
The syllables sat heavy behind his teeth.
That day replayed sometimes. The wrong footsteps leaving. The wrong person walking into the light. If Sukuna had gone instead, there would’ve been a fight. Sukuna was faster, stronger.
Instead, Choso had walked.
Now he stood in this kitchen measuring carrots into even lines.
He kept his mouth shut.
Gojo moved behind him anyway.
Warmth settled at his back. Fingers rested at his waist. Not rough that night. Just possession cosplaying affection.
“You didn’t answer,” Gojo murmured near his ear.
Choso’s throat tightened. “You came back.”
A soft laugh. “That isn’t the same.”
Choso swallowed.
He used to argue semantics.
He used to correct tone.
He used to say no.
That version of him felt theoretical now.
Like a show he half-remembered but couldn’t place. He tried to recall the opening song. Nothing came.
Gojo slid his hand up Choso’s chest, slow, unhurried. Testing compliance. There was no resistance. There never was anymore.
Good, the touch said.
Choso stood still.
He didn’t ask where Gojo had been.
He didn’t ask who the blood belonged to.
He didn’t ask what “mostly” meant.
Five years was long enough to forget how to exist unsupervised.
He used to grocery shop alone. He thought he did. He remembered fluorescent lights and comparing prices. Or maybe that was something he had seen once. It blurred together.
He used to know his siblings’ favorite snacks. Eso liked something sour. Or sweet. He couldn’t remember which. The detail slipped like water through his hands.
Gojo pressed his lips to the back of Choso’s neck. “You’re quiet today.”
Choso nodded.
He had learned the math of survival. Speak less. React smaller. Let Gojo narrate the world.
Gojo preferred it that way.
“You cook better when I’m gone,” his captor continued conversationally. “Less distracted.”
Choso’s fingers curled against the counter.
Distracted meant thinking. Thinking led to before. The before was dangerous.
“Did you go anywhere?”
It landed light. Almost bored.
Choso hadn’t crossed the threshold in five years without being half-conscious and strapped into first class. The building concierge had never said his name. The mailbox didn’t carry it. There were no delivery records, no biometric logs, no visitor passes.
On paper, he did not live there.
If the place caught fire, he would burn undocumented.
His pulse still misfired. “No.”
“Did anyone come by?”
“No.”
Gojo hummed, considering.
He tilted Choso’s chin up finally, forcing eye contact. Cerulean eyes searched honey-brown ones.
Choso kept his face empty.
He used to cry when Gojo asked questions like that. Used to shake. Used to deny too quickly.
Now he just waited.
The silence stretched. A test.
Gojo smiled. “Good.”
The word settled heavy in Choso’s chest.
Good meant the house stayed quiet.
Good meant no one had been found.
Good meant his brothers were still out there somewhere, breathing in a world that didn’t know Gojo’s interest had limits.
Choso leaned back into him without thinking.
The motion surprised him.
“Oh?” Gojo gave a pleased lilt. “What is this?”
Choso closed his eyes. It was easier to lean than to be pulled.
Somewhere along the years, fear blurred into something softer and more humiliating. Relief when the door opened. Relief when Gojo chose him over whatever violence filled the rest of his day.
He hated that relief.
He hated that he waited for the sound of the lock.
Gojo’s fingers drifted to his throat. Light pressure. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind. “Thinking hard?”
“No.”
“About me?”
Choso hesitated.
That was a mistake.
Gojo’s thumb pressed slightly deeper.
“Yes,” Choso corrected quietly.
The pressure eased. “See? That wasn’t difficult.”
Choso breathed again.
He used to know how seasons changed outside that house.
Now he tracked time by Gojo’s trips. Conferences. Missions. Foreign “vacations” where he woke in luxury suites with jet lag and needle marks on his arm.
He remembered Paris once.
Or maybe it had been Milan. He couldn’t read the street signs. Gojo kept the curtains drawn anyway.
He used to speak more languages.
He thought he did. The words felt rusted in his mouth.
Gojo kissed his temple. “You are such a…” He whispered into Choso’s ear, breath husky, “good boy lately.”
Pause.
Choso’s breathing hitched slightly.
“That’s my good baby. Staying right where you belong.”
Choso’s jaw tightened.
He said nothing.
If he argued, Gojo laughed.
If he accepted, Gojo stayed like this.
He chose the smile.
“Still scared I’d wander off?” Gojo turned him around fully, caging him against the counter. “Without you?”
Choso’s pulse spiked.
He didn’t answer.
“I won’t,” Gojo said, almost gentle, hands already wandering over the pale expanse of Choso’s waist, his fingers digging faint crescent shapes into skin. “Not if you behaved.”
There it was.
The shape of it.
Love bent into a threat.
Choso studied his face.
The man who dragged him across continents sedated so he wouldn’t “get overwhelmed.”
The man who limited television because “outside narratives complicated loyalty.”
The man who brought home blood in neat, labeled bags like groceries.
Choso used to tell himself it wasn’t real. That this was temporary. That he was enduring.
Somewhere in year three, he stopped counting days.
Somewhere in year four, he started waiting by the door before the lock beeped.
"Stockholm" was too clinical a word.
It felt more like erosion.
Gojo brushed his thumb over Choso’s lower lip. “You are trembling again.”
“I... Cold.”
Gojo smiled wider. “Liar.”
He leaned in slowly enough that Choso saw it coming.
Gojo’s hand slid up the side of his neck first, thumb settling beneath his jaw, guiding rather than forcing. Warm. Familiar. Impossible to ignore. His mouth brushed Choso’s before the kiss properly landed, almost testing whether he would pull away.
Choso didn’t.
Gojo hummed softly at that, pleased, and deepened it. Worse than rough. Patient. His lips lingered like he had endless time to relearn the shape of him every night.
The kiss turned warm, suffocatingly gentle, breath shared too close, Gojo tilting his head just enough to keep control of the angle.
His fingers tightened slightly at Choso’s throat.
Reminder pressure.
Choso stayed still at first, mouth barely moving beneath his. Waiting it out. Surviving it.
Gojo exhaled against him, smiling into the kiss when there was no resistance.
Then Choso kissed back, fingers catching against the stiff collar and gold-buttoned front of Gojo’s unbuttoned military coat. Small. Careful. Automatic.
Because that version of Gojo was easier.
That version didn’t ask about siblings. Didn’t test loyalty with missing-person reports left casually on the coffee table. Didn’t mention how fragile a vampire could be.
Gojo’s hand slipped to his waist, pulling him closer until there was no space left between them. The kiss slowed instead of escalating, turning soft in a way that felt almost domestic. Almost normal.
Like any of this was normal. Like Choso didn’t wake every day hoping Gojo wouldn’t find his siblings.
That was what made Choso’s chest hurt.
Gojo kissed like someone who already owned what he touched.
Choso learned what Gojo was capable of the day he tried to run.
The hospital room. The bruises. The way Gojo sat beside the bed, smiling softly while explaining how easy disappearance could be arranged.
That was the day something inside him split.
You couldn’t love a man who mapped your family’s arteries like future blueprints.
And yet.
Gojo pulled back only enough to breathe, their foreheads resting together, his thumb still tracing slow circles beneath Choso’s jaw.
“You are so syrupy for me,” he said with an easy smile, thumb brushing lazily along Choso’s lower lip.
Choso’s chest ached.
He wanted to believe that meant his brothers were irrelevant. Untouched. Uninteresting.
He knew better.
He nodded anyway.
Gojo seemed satisfied.
“Dinner smells good.” He stepped back, lifted the blood bag, and slid it into the refrigerator like it was just another grocery item. “See? Domestic life suits you.”
Something in Choso bristled at that.
He thought he had been like this long before Gojo. Quiet hands. Clean counters. Meals made without being asked.
He watched Gojo move through the kitchen, confident and comfortable, like the space reshaped itself around him.
Choso tried to remember what his brothers sounded like when they laughed. The pitch. The rhythm. Who laughed louder. Who talked over the other.
There was only static.
His chest tightened.
That frightened him more than anything Gojo had ever done.
His jaw flexed once. Controlled.
He opened the refrigerator and took the blood bag back out.
Inside, one shelf was reserved for it. Opaque containers. Labeled. Dated.
He adjusted the placement so everything lined up evenly.
Ordered. Because that was all Choso had control over now.
Gojo leaned back against the counter, watching him with the same focused attention he had shown in the condemned building. “You didn’t try anything today?”
Choso closed the fridge. “No.”
“Good.”
“Could I open a window?”
“You hate dust.”
“I won’t leave.”
A soft laugh. “Of course you won’t.”
Gojo crossed the room and cupped Choso’s face in his hand. The grip wasn’t gentle or harsh. It settled. Claimed.
Choso met his eyes.
They only glowed now when he was starving.
“You could try,” Gojo said quietly. “You know that.”
Basement reinforced. Front door keyed to Gojo’s biometrics. Neighbors who waved and owed favors. Cameras that didn’t freeze.
Choso said nothing.
Fifteen minutes later—“Come here.”
He was halfway through rinsing the dishes when Gojo called him over.
Choso dried his hands automatically and walked into the living room. Gojo was already sprawled across the couch, shoes kicked off, tie loosened, a remote balanced lazily in one hand.
He patted his thigh.
Choso hesitated only a second before sitting.
Gojo pulled him closer until Choso’s weight settled fully in his lap, one arm locking around his waist like placement correction. Familiar pressure. Containing.
“There we go,” he murmured near Choso’s ear.
A remote pressed into Choso’s palm. “Go on.”
Choso blinked down at it.
“The windows. You’ve been good.”
The curtains hummed softly as the blackout panels retracted.
Light spilled in.
Real light.
Gold indirect evening sun flooded the house, stretching across marble floors, catching dust in slow motion. Warmth touched Choso’s face for the first time in years—months—he wasn’t sure anymore.
He exhaled without meaning to.
The skyline burned orange outside. Moving cars. People existing somewhere beyond reinforced UV-blocking glass.
His shoulders loosened.
Just slightly.
Gojo caught that immediately.
“There it is,” he said quietly, almost pleased. “Missed that, huh, my little vampire?”
Choso nodded before remembering he didn’t have to answer.
Sunlight brushed his skin, diluted through treated glass but still warm enough to feel alive. His eyes half-closed. For a moment, the house felt less like containment and more like altitude.
“I forgot you look in the sun, Red,” Gojo murmured, kissing Choso’s ear, teeth grazing skin. Gojo’s hand began moving absentmindedly along his side.
Praise followed touch.
Slow strokes along his ribs. Fingers combed through his hair. A thumb traced the line of his throat.
“So well-behaved lately,” Gojo murmured near his ear. “I should reward you more often.”
Choso leaned back without realizing. The warmth outside. Gojo’s voice low behind him. Hands everywhere but never hurried.
Approval settled heavy and intoxicating.
Gojo adjusted him higher on his lap, mouth brushing the side of his shoulder. Each touch framed like encouragement instead of demand.
Choso’s breathing changed first.
Gojo noticed that too. “Relax, angel,” he whispered. “Nobody is taking this away.”
The sunlight pooled across them both.
Choso’s shirt slipped open under wandering hands, skin catching gold light. He felt exposed but… lighter. Less cold. The constant tension in his body loosened under warmth and attention combined.
Gojo watched his reactions carefully, observation disguised as affection, hands steady at his waist and along his spine, grounding him whenever he shifted.
“If I moved my hand any lower,” Gojo murmured, breath uneven against his ear, “are you going to stop me?”
Choso didn’t stop him.
Didn’t want to.
Choso trembled as Gojo ground him against his thigh, fingers clutching uselessly at his jacket.
Gojo’s hand moved to one of Choso’s pecs, twisting and pinching in equal, torturous measure. “You look better when you are trying not to react.”
Choso couldn’t focus on what Gojo was saying. Then the movement slowed, and a small, helpless sound slipped from him, wanting Gojo to let him cum.
Heat flooded Choso’s mouth as Gojo’s tongue slid against his, slow and wet.
The warmth made everything blur. Fear dulled at the edges.
His head tipped back against Gojo’s shoulder, breath uneven, unsure whether the pull in his chest was desire or relief or something dangerously close to comfort.
He didn’t know if he liked Gojo.
He didn’t know if he was allowed to.
Gojo murmured praise against his temple anyway. “That’s it… sweetheart. Make that face again.”
And he said it while staring into Choso’s eyes.
The words landed deeper than they should.
Choso’s fingers clutched weakly at Gojo’s scalp as sensation built, unfamiliar and frightening in how willingly his body followed. Gojo guided without speaking now, reading him perfectly, slowing whenever Choso tensed, encouraging when he melted again.
The sunset deepened.
Just as Choso’s breath broke—
The front door opened.
No warning. No lock. No beep.
A man strolled in like he belonged there.
Tall. Relaxed. Smiling faintly as his eyes landed immediately on the couch.
On Choso.
On his bare skin.
Choso jerked upright with a startled sound, scrambling off Gojo’s lap, grabbing for fabric, panic hitting so fast it burned. He backed away, trying to cover himself, heart slamming.
Someone else.
Someone saw.
Gojo had never brought anyone home.
Especially not someone with a key.
Choso turned toward the hallway—
Gojo’s arm caught him instantly, pulling him back against his chest.
“It’s fine,” he said sharply, holding him in place. Not hurting him, but not allowing escape either.
Gojo looked past him, irritation flashing. “You could’ve knocked.”
Suguru shrugged, unbothered, gaze still fixed on Choso. Slow. Assessing. “Didn’t realize you finally stopped hiding him.”
Choso lowered his eyes immediately.
Predator instinct screamed wrong, wrong, wrong.
Gojo’s hand settled possessively at his hip.
“Satoru,” Suguru said lightly, amused. “You weren’t exaggerating.”
Gojo exhaled through his nose, annoyed now. “Eyes up here.”
Suguru barely complied.
Later, Choso served dinner with steady hands that didn’t feel like his own.
He kept his gaze on the table as plates were set down. Careful movements. Controlled breathing. Fully dressed now, but heat still lingered under his skin from earlier humiliation.
Gojo watched him proudly, grabbing Choso’s arm and suddenly making him sit beside him.
“Sweets,” he gestured casually, “this is Suguru.”
Choso nodded without looking up.
Suguru leaned forward. “So the famous one had a name?”
Silence.
Choso waited.
Gojo tapped the table once. “You can answer.”
“…Choso,” he said quietly.
Suguru smiled like he was studying something rare. “How long have you been here?”
Choso’s hands tightened around the serving spoon.
He didn’t answer.
“He prefers staying home,” Gojo answered for him instead, smugly. “My little housewife.”
Suguru’s gaze flicked between them.
“You are getting cocky,” he said mildly. “We hunt vampires for a living, remember?”
Choso froze, not sure who could even call Gojo out.
Gojo only smiled.
Suguru continued eating like nothing was strange.
And that was when Choso understood.
Suguru walked in without hesitation. No resistance. No fear. No invitation needed.
The doors opened for him.
Gojo trusted him enough to enter freely.
More than Choso had ever been trusted to leave.
Choso lowered his eyes to his plate and ate quietly, careful not to look at Suguru again, a cold realization settling deeper than fear.
He wasn’t the protected one there.
He never would be.
He was just the kept one.
Then Suguru Geto began visiting on Sundays. He brought wine. He didn’t comment on the blackout curtains.
He stepped into the living room with an easy smile and looked down the hallway. “Still domestic?”
“Upgraded,” Gojo replied. “We are very stable.”
Choso stood when they entered. Dark sweater. Straight posture. Hands loose at his sides.
Suguru studied him openly. “You make good food.”
“He is consistent,” Gojo said, drifting closer, an arm already around Choso’s waist.
Suguru circled once, assessing without threat. “No visible damage.”
“Maintenance is important.”
Choso’s fingers flexed once.
Suguru stopped in front of him. “You don’t resent him?”
The room held its breath.
Choso answered without looking away. “I don’t kill humans.”
Suguru’s smile thinned with interest.
Gojo moved closer and slid an arm around Choso’s shoulders. Choso neither leaned into it nor stepped away.
“You see?” Gojo said, tucking away strands of Choso’s hair. “Five years. No escape attempts in three.”
Suguru’s gaze shifted to the windows. Outside, children rode bikes past the white fence, their laughter carrying faintly through the glass.
“You want to go out?” Gojo asked, tone light, the cerulean of his eyes like the sky.
Choso looked toward the filtered light, then back. “No.”
Gojo’s satisfaction was immediate.
Later, wine half-finished, Suguru reclined on the couch while alone with Gojo. “This arrangement won’t hold forever.”
“It will. If managed.”
“And when he stops cooperating?”
In the kitchen, water ran. Glass clinked against porcelain.
“He wouldn’t. He loves being here. And me.” Confidence sat in his voice like concrete.
Choso shut off the tap in the kitchen. The metallic taste of blood still clung to the back of his throat—thin, rationed, just enough to keep the shaking down.
Water slipped from his fingers, pink for a second before disappearing down the drain.
In the darkened window, his reflection barely held. The UV film warped it and stretched it thin. He looked like a ghost wearing his own face.
Rain streaked the glass.
Broken windows. Concrete dust. A hand in his hair, gentle only because it could afford to be.
You’re different.
He pressed his palm to the pane. Beyond it, leaves stirred in a breeze he couldn’t feel.
Laughter spilled from the living room. Gojo’s voice, bright and adored.
Choso closed his eyes.
His fangs descended—not for hunger.
For control.
He drew them back in slowly. Dried his hands. Walked back into the room.
Gojo looked up at once.
“There you are,” he said, as if absence were possible.
Choso sat beside him. Their knees touched. Nothing soft about it.
Suguru watched the space between them like a live wire. “You are really going to keep him forever?”
“Forever is flexible.”
Choso met Gojo’s gaze. Unblinking.
The clock continued its steady count.
Gojo smiled at him—sharp, reverent, possessive.
Choso held his eyes.
A/N: This was supposed to be a small warm-up while AO3 was down. I planned for 2k. It turned into 4.3k and a man who now does my laundry. Let me know what you think/what scene hit the hardest.
I can absolutely see Gochoso as “cute” (derogatory) in the worst timeline, but my heart is still Choso/Ino—every sunshine deserves his grumpy. Take it up with Gege.
Header images are from the anime lol and all 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.
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.
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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.
Guys Nanami x reader is just a lil delayed bc it was supposed to be 1.2k and now it's 17k which I wrote through a no sleep 2 day straight manic episode so it has alot of errors with formatting and typos so please give me a day or three to post it but don't worry, it's done and hopefully you will actually love it. It has marathon sex too for some reason beyond my comprehension even though I don't even like writing smut lol. I'm perhaps evolving.
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.
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.
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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
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.
Masterlist | Separate Nanami x Reader Birthday Fic
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.
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.
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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.
