(you know damn well he would’ve caved even without the pathetic little performance, but it wouldn’t hurt to be polite.)

plus, that smile of his. god, that smile.

there, tugging at his lips, it is not the serpentine smirk he wears alongside his monastic robes in front of the masses. you’ve always found the look quite bone-chilling. now, his beautiful brown eyes crease into crescents because he is smiling for you.

“i see someone’s greedy tonight,”

suguru huffs, tucking a stray strand of inky hair behind his ear. the display of mock exasperation fails to conceal the adoration oozing through. interlocking his fingers, he makes a big show of pushing his palms outward, rolling his shoulders to stretch out the tension. he rolls his hips in a slowly, his muscle-rippled pelvis slick and shining with your combined cum, veins mapping down his lower abdomen and spider-webbing across his shaft as the bulbous, purplish-red tip weeps.

“you really want to milk me dry so badly, huh?”

wrapping a hand around his semi-invigorated cock, he gives it a few warming pumps before positioning himself.

i guess naobito was a strict disciplinarian during naoya’s formative years, given naoya’s perfectionist, ambitious, and prideful nature, the two of them probably got along quite well. naoya grew up believing that his talent & discipline entitled him to absolute impunity, that as long as he excelled in his training, he could behave however he liked. and in reality, naobito simply allowed his youngest son to grow into an arrogant bully.

anyhoo. while i don’t think naobito was as absusive and misogynistic as ogi, he was definitely an inadequate paternal figure imho.. absenteeism at best & manipulative at worst. frankly, the societal structures governing the Big Three families render most of their elders inherently ill-equipped for parenthood; they view their gifted children primarily as assets (norotoshi kamo jr), if not outright mistreated. (the zen’in twins ) while naoya undoubtedly had a more privileged childhood compared to his cousins, but he was just as much a pawn to his father’s ambitions. he spent his entire life being fed the promise that he was the next head, only for the rug to be pulled out from under him in favour of a “bastard child” who didn’t even carry the zen’in name.

(satoru is the outlier, but that’s only because he’s the strongest and literally no one in his clan dares to defy him. he wanted to attend jujutsu tech and he got his way.)

it is established canon that naobito sired plenty of sons prior to naoya, likely driven by pragmatic objectives. as mentioned by ogi, the worth of one’s offspring was measured by their potential to ascend as clan head. given the age disparity (naobito being 71 and naoya 27) i presume naoya’s birth was a last ditch effort by naobito to produce a successor capable of contesting the gojo clan’s dominance following the emergence of the six eyes

my theory is that the birth was traumatic, that naoya essentially destroyed his mother’s womb during labor, leading to her death and potentially triggering naobito’s alcoholism as a result. maybe that would explain why he was taken care by his aunt instead of his mother. plus, there’s so much to unpack with The Womb imagery in naoya’s domain expansion; perhaps he was stuck in that cycle of deep-seated resentment towards women. idk

naobito definitely favored naoya over his other sons—you only have to look at the family photo to see it. ranta, who was (technically?) a distant cousin, is positioned in the front row because of his talent in jujutsu sorcery, while naobito’s other sons are likely relegated to the background. it’s hard to tell if naoya is playing the part of the pro forma son or just telling his father to fuck off

and yet, he finds a perverse thrill in the dissonance between the demure, modest wife he parades in public and the eroticised plaything he demands you become in the privacy of his bedchamber. one might call it a madonna-whore complex, though with a distinct twist: he is fixated entirely on you. the dual sides of your persona, as one might enjoy two halves of a black-and-white cookie. while he may never bother to memorise a brand name or shade of your lipstick, he grows viscerally upset if you experiment with a hue that veers from his standard, insisting that you return to wearing “the other red.”

watching your pretty lips—painted in the very high-gloss rouge he forbids you from wearing in the light of day—wrapped dutifully around his cock takes him back to your wedding day: you, swathed in a virginal white shiromuku, peering bashfully up at him through your lashes. your lips bore that same arterial red as he tilted your chin up, adjusting your watabōshi to claim his kiss. for him, that shade remains a tether to the moment you were legally and symbolically shackled to him.