You get about six or seven seconds of drifting consciousness before Satoru tuts, unable to go on living and breathing without your constant attention as he pouts, "So that's how it is, huh, sweetheart? What, no answer for your poor, neglected husband?"

(You're entirely unsurprised that he can't take what he dishes out.)

A smile threatens the corners of your mouth into complaceny despite your best efforts at maintaining a resting poker face. "You've survived over thirty years with constant, and I mean constant, ass-kissing and validation," you murmur around another yawn. You wish you could crawl back in bed for some more snuggles, but alas, duty calls; this is what you get for binging alien sci-fi films with Satoru until the odd hours of the morning. "I'm certain you'll survive a second without me indulging you."

"I can't even last half of one and you know that." The answer arrives so decisively sulky that it nearly makes you snicker. "I could care less about what my family and all the other syndicates out there have to say about me. I'll wither away if it's not you singing pretty in my ear." His grip cinches ever so slightly around your waist as Satoru presses a supplicatory kiss to the weak spot behind your ear, trying to strong-arm your attention instead of patiently waiting for it to come around.

Greedy bastard.

Exhaling through your nose, you crack your eyes open to the mirror projecting the striking couple you as husband and wife make. While you're both quite the sight (and you're especially stunning, you toot your own horn), it will always, always be Satoru that magnetizes your stare into being drawn towards his gravitational pull.

He looms over your shoulder, beam broadening with an exuberance to rival the sun itself when your gazes lock through the glass. Damp ivory strands frame a face too handsome for his own good, falling in featherlight wisps across his forehead and with several rebellious tufts curling in whichever direction they so please, impossibly soft against the ethereal geometry of his face. Crystalline blue eyes— those eyes that have toppled hardened men twice his age into obedience, but never you— admire you from the tips of your platform Mary Janes to your blinking lashes.

Satoru is the breaking ocean at dawn, a dropless blue sky curling around the world like a lawless cat lousing around in a sunbeam. He is beautiful, he is untouchable, and he is wholly yours, in sickness and in health.

"I love when you stare at me like that," Satoru murmurs, oozing besotment on every syllable. He steals an unblushing second to snuffle dreamily at your perfumed neck, licking a stripe over the tendon and breathing a smile into you when you wrinkle your nose. "But I can't say I love that you still haven't answered me."

You pick your way backwards through the conversation. "Yeah, fine. The vibe for today?"

"The vibe for today," he confirms, pointing at your various bejeweled decorations in front of you.

"Hmmm. What's the vibe for today, indeed. I think…" you thoughtfully cock your head, fingers skimming the velvet-lined drawers chock full of jewelry. "Simple, yet classy and pretty. The usual."

Satoru's brows jump in mild surprise. "Simple?" He, with great emphasis, looks your reflected self in the mirror up and down. He's practically shouting "you're outshining everyone with a look you call simple?" without actually straining his vocal cords to do so.

"You sound like a parrot today, always repeating back what I'm saying," you mutter with an amused little scoff, proudly reposing in Satoru's sunlit laughter that's pitched low and rich enough that you feel the tenor of it quake through his chest before you even hear it chuffing at your ear. "We're meeting with Suguru, not attending a royal wedding or showing some ass at the club."

He blazes over your quip with a stupefied shuttering of his once easygoing, now slighted expression, childishly scowling your way through thinly lidded blue eyes. His irises are harder than diamonds, and all the more beautiful for it. "You're getting pretty for Suguru?" Satoru quibbles, lips pressing downwards.

"I am dressing professionally for our meeting to discuss business procedures with Suguru, because that's what the corporate dress code calls for," you draw out slowly, reaching back to squash the tip of his nose with your finger. You can only hope that the contact zaps some lucidity back into him. "And I am simultaneously toeing the line with elaborate jewelry and somewhat revealing dresswear so that firstly, I feel like the bad bitch that I am, and secondly but least importantly—" you break for a long pause to deal 500 points of psychic damage to his ego before continuing, "to make sure you don't get bored to death without me as your quote unquote eye candy to keep you stimulated."

As if he were never miffed by the most ludicrous assumption he's come up with recent memory, a flattered grin tugs his lips apart and shows his pearly canines. "D'awww, my wifey's always spoiling me. You make me feel like a million yen, dollars, and pesos all at once." Satoru stamps a loud mwah on your cheek.

You suspect— no, you're certain that Satoru was never jealous to begin with; his performance had all the sincerity of a child forcing out crocodile tears over a scraped knee just to coax a kiss from his mother. He's evidently incapable of resisting any opportunity to manufacture a situation where you'd sweeten his tooth, even if it meant pretending to be scandalized by the thought of another man appreciating your appearance.

Yeah, you wouldn't change his freak ass for the world. Not even the hundred plus counts of murder on his hands could drag you away from him. What a married life that you lead…

"Just help me pick a few pieces out, would you?" You sigh, patting the back of his hand where it remains suctioned to your waist. He cheerily hums his interest, perking to the task as if its of great importance.

Morning sunlight pours through the towering windows of the walk-in closet— occupying nearly the same square footage as your first apartment post-college ever had— in molten ribbons, spilling across polished walnut cabinetry and racks filled with hangers, and catching on glass shelves lined with velvet display stands.

Naturally, the room rings with the high-pitched glassy tune of sumptuousness in answer.

Diamonds fracture the light into tiny stars that wander over the walls; gold radiates the rich warmth of honey; platinum reflects the daylight with cool, silvery precision; emerald slyly winks your way; pearls band together like the light foam of the ocean.

One entire wall became your jewelry collection over the years— one you haven't quite grown accustomed to having at all. If anything, it will eternally boggle your mind that you own such a plethora of finery.

There had been a time when stepping inside a boutique just to look at pieces like these had felt like you were committing theft in broad daylight, your body language unconsciously becoming shifty out of nerves in front of the security doing laps around the room. You used to admire jewelry through immaculate glass display cases accompanied by tiny white price cards that looked more like telephone numbers than costs, privately wondering what kind of lives the women wearing six-figure necklaces must lead. Owning even just one beautiful piece seemed like a once-in-a-lifetime milestone.

And now… now, you peruse a collection of what feels like hundreds of rows upon rows of jewelry. Those same display cases you refused to put your hands on when you were younger, too terrified to even breathe too hard in their direction, currently take up storage space in your own home— just one perk of being Gojo Satoru's wife and the object of all his overly earnest affections, you suppose.

(Fuck a runway, you could host the entirety of Paris Fashion Week in here.)

You've been gifted countless pieces over years of birthdays, anniversaries, successful negotiations, spontaneous shopping sprees, and Satoru's incurable habit of spying something pretty, thinking fondly of you, and considering that reason enough to offer you yet another obscenely expensive present.

You've even splurged on yourself a few times as well using yours and Satoru's shared bank account, though in the past you'd wobbled on more than one purchase. It's not like he lets you angst over whether your wants (not needs) justify such flabbergasting prices anymore, anyways; Satoru has taught you to ignore it all and just go for whatever you desire, no matter if it's silly. In fact, he begs you to spend what is also your money.

After a few minutes of presenting various jewelry (sapphire studs from Harry Winston, a silver Pandora cuff bracelet, a Van Cleef & Arpels Alhambra ring fashioned from gold and luminous mother-of-pearl, three matching Mejuri bangles you don't recognize which prompts you to squint suspiciously at your husband) to Satoru for his personal input, he finally stops you at a delicate silver Bulgari Serpenti watch. "This one," he declares, leaning dangerously far over your shoulder to grab and hold onto it for you.

"Good choice," you praise, glancing over the rest of your selections. "Earrings?"

"You can't go wrong with Tiffany," Satoru points out. "You could wear your dancing diamonds set. I haven't seen them on you in a minute; you make them look reaaaaal pretty."

You're sufficiently swayed, flattered by the honeyed confidence in his voice when he insists that you're lending the diamonds their beauty instead of the other way around— the distinction does wonders for your gooey heart. "I'm down," you decide.

With a soft hum, you step to the left (Satoru, still clinging, shuffles with you), lifting the tip of one Tiffany & Co. diamond drop earring with your fingernail; it merrily scatters light as it quivers in place. The matching necklace hangs below it, its platinum-encrusted diamond similarly cascading.

Your husband finally detaches from you, gently grasping your shoulders for a brief second as he steps around you to wander along the displays. Shamelessly, you appreciate the broad shift of his back through his suit jacket as he bends at the waist to better observe the options, rubbing his jaw as he goes. His pert ass, too, receives the full brunt of your ogling.

"And... hmm…” Satoru confidently reaches for a slim Cartier Juste un Clou piece, a winding bracelet that twirls elegantly around the wrist like liquid gold, plucking it from its casing and twisting it between long slender fingers. He turns to you with a beam, dangling the watch and bracelet from both hands and looking every bit the untouchable heir born into old money and even older power. "Just the one bracelet, and then I think you're good to go," he asserts.

"No rings?" You ask, crossing your arms.

"What’s the point? You already wear two." His gaze drops meaningfully toward the engagement ring and wedding band permanently curling a home around your finger, which you tap lazily against your elbow. “You don't need competition, sweets,” he sniffs with equal parts petulance and pride.

The corners of your mouth soften before you even realize it. Fond as all hell, you briefly close your eyes and shake your head. "I suppose you're right." Fluttering your lashes open, you hold your hand up to the light, admiring the glittery play of your most treasured gifts crowning it.

The oval-cut center diamond of your engagement ring is nestled in a cathedral of prongs and embellished with even smaller pavé diamonds, each faceted surface flinging prisms over your skin. Beneath it, your platinum wedding band curves snugly around your finger in an unbroken promise of precious metal and devotion, an engraved message for your eyes only ringing the inner part.

They’re more than just breathtaking, anyone with eyes could see that, but their greatest luxury lies in the man who'd slid them there, nothing but pure emotion begetting the winking tears at his lashlines on both occasions. One ring asked a question about an obtainable forever, and the other had promised that forever.

With a hopelessly devoted smile, you lay your gaze on Satoru, who unblinkingly matches your expression from beneath a tousled fringe of candy floss hair. "Why wear other rings when these are the ones that matter most to me?" You muse.

For a rare moment, he has nothing clever to say. He only meanders over and reaches for your hand, turning it palm-up before bringing your knuckles to his lips in a sugary kiss, his thumb brushing over the familiar bands with unmistakable reverence. In the same breath, Satoru fastens the Cartier Juste un Clou to your left wrist, the Bulgari Serpenti watch to your right, twisting them so the embellishments face forward. The jewelry burns coolly into your skin for only a moment before warming with your body heat.

You turn to find the correct velvet-lined stands housing your Tiffany & Co. set when Satoru beats you to them with infuriating speed, plucking the earrings from their perch before holding them just out of reach like a toddler. "Aht."

"You've got clever hands," you note dryly, not bothering to put up a fight. You expectantly press into him instead, flattening a hand to his rapidly beating chest— it's cute, really, how affected he is by you even after all these years. You don't doubt that your heart is matching his pace, irreversibly twined together as you are.

"All the better to decorate you with," Satoru claims with a lazy wiggle of silvery brows.

"Alright, Big Bad Wolf." You roll your eyes with all the falsified long-suffering of someone who has been married to Gojo Satoru long enough to recognize there is no practical value in resisting the harmless whims that seize him after breakfast. You're bracing for him to hit you with a smartass comment in return, but instead—

"I'd like the honor of putting on the rest of your jewelry, too," he keeps pushing, soft-soaping with the most adorable pout to his plush lips. No wonder he always gets his way— you could just gobble him up.

"How sweet," you comment lightly, turning your head for him. "Go ahead."

Minty fresh breath wafts over you as Satoru leans in close. The infamous Gojo-gumi oyabun whose name alone unsettles rival organizations and whose hands have slaughtered countless men weaves the first earring through your lobe with almost absurd concentration, tongue caught against the inside of his cheek as though fastening jewelry requires the precision of a bomb technician. Gentle moments like these always strip away the intimidating reputation he'd cultivated so effortlessly. Satoru's just as precise in securing the second earring and its backing, fingers sparking heat at your ear.

His knuckles cascade along your jaw before he gently cups your cheeks, turning your face left and right to watch the diamonds do what they do best— dance. Not once does he cut eye contact as Satoru sways back on his heels to evaluate his work with a satisfied little nod. "All good," he says with a peck to your forehead.

You rotate in place to face the mirror and smooth your hair to the side to make way for the necklace's chain that slips along the sides of your neck. Satoru reaches around you to drape the dancing diamond over your heart, pulling back to thread both ends of the necklace at your nape all while you watch the frankly adorable dedication poured into his reflected self's movements. He snaps the clasp into place with a satisfying click.

"There you go," Satoru murmurs. "Prettiest girl in the world, I'm telling you."

Like the sea glass painting Fort Bragg’s coast, his eyes catch every wandering beam of sunlight filtering through the room, throwing flecks of oceanic cerulean across irises that rival the diamonds twinkling at your throat and ears. His eyes refuse to settle on your jewelry for long before climbing back to your face through the mirror. Satoru studies you down the line of his nose with the boyish endearment of having been allowed to tend to you in yet another tiny, ordinary way.

"Good?" He asks, voice vibrating pleasantly against your back, chased immediately by the rooting brush of his nose through your hair with an impossibly pleased sigh, once again sniffing you like the dog that he is as you check yourself out.

The effect of your jewelry is exact; it lends you enough flair to elevate your outfit without overwhelming the low-necked blouse and high-waisted charcoal pencil skirt flattering your figure. Lips pursed with pride, you shift from foot to foot to check yourself out from both sides.

"Perfect. Thank you, baby," you croon, reaching back to give him a very deserved pat on his cheek. He nuzzles into your palm for but a moment before spinning you by your waist like a princess, puckering his lips like he deserves a reward and whining under his breath when you smush a finger to his mouth instead of locking lips.

"Wait, and be patient for once in your life. It's your turn," you sing-song, drawing that same nail down his chin, his Adam's apple, the beginnings of his sternum that crops up from beneath his pressed open shirt.

Lost, he scrunches up his nose and flattens his eyes. "Hah? Mine?" Satoru looks down at his wedding band that matches your own. He used to wear a few rings per finger like a set of brass knuckles to really fuck people up when he beats them to massy pulps on the ground, but now he typically sticks to just the one. "I have all that I need right here."

While that's enough to worsen your terminal case of lovesickness, his blindness towards his own appearance takes you out. This is a man whose face has launched negotiations in his favor before he'd even opened his mouth, whose smile had charmed politicians, CEOs, other oyabuns, and elderly ladies in grocery stores alike, whose family had spent decades raising him— despite his protests and escapades— to carry the impossible weight of the Gojo name with immaculate presentation. Yet ask Satoru how he looked, and he'd shrug as though he were discussing the weather.

Perhaps it's because he's never needed to think about it. Beauty settled over him as naturally as breathing. Annoying.

You sigh, "Come here."

"I am here?"

"Closer."

One word from you and the feared oyabun of the Gojo-gumi closes the remaining distance without the slightest hesitation and dips his chin, squaring himself in front of you so that the polished toes of his Italian loafers kiss your Mary Janes. His smile's unbearably smug as he crows, "I knew you couldn't resist me."

"More like I couldn't resist fixing whatever tragic excuse you made for getting ready," you snort out before you can help it. "Honestly, baby…"

"What?" Satoru asks, unfazed, lips already quirking before you get to the punch.

You trail your gaze over him with deliberate slowness. His suit is, predictably, immaculate beneath your hands that you smooth along his lapels, flattening borderline microscopic wrinkles. The charcoal fabric— some sort of stupidly expensive imported wool that matches your skirt— molds beautifully over broad shoulders and his killer narrow waist before disappearing beneath pressed trousers that manage to make his legs, already unfairly long, appear even longer.

Only his silk tie hangs crooked beneath the collar of his immaculate white dress shirt, blatantly the hurried handiwork of a husband who had evidently been more interested in wandering off in search of his wife than finishing getting dressed after his shower. You can't find it anything but endearing.

You pinch the loose knot between two fingers and suck your teeth. "Did you tie this while looking at your reflection in a spoon?"

"No, but I was a little distracted," Satoru admits, remaining still as you loosen the knot with precise tugs.

"By?"

"You." He breathes it with the same exasperation as someone saying 'duh, obviously.'

"I would love to study your brain," you remark. The expensive silk slides smoothly beneath your fingertips as you rebuild the knot from scratch, looping the tie through in practiced motions. Satoru's eyes don't follow your hands for long before drifting back to your face, quietly admiring the tiny furrow between your brows whilst you focus. He's watching you the same way he had while fastening your jewelry, as if doting on each other is somehow the most fascinating thing either of you could be doing with your spare time. "Considering I wasn't even the same room when you tried to hang yourself with this tie."

He laughs, summer-bright and carefree. His Adam's Apple bobs around the musical tune as you finally pull the fresh tie snug at his crisp white collar. "I have an excellent imagination, princess, and you know it. I was daydreaming about that cute, sexy scowl you get when you're on top of me and started giggling to myself and playing with my tie."

"Were you, huh? The day's only just begun, but I already know how I want it end," you sing-song, tucking that particularly good idea away for later. If today doesn't produce a headache of an emergency gone down on one of the Gojo-gumi's many territories, you'll be giving it to Satoru good the second you return home.

Satoru's throat rumbles again (this time with a sound akin to a purr) when you stroke back and forth through his white hair, just because you can— and also to distract him from what you said, melting his brain down to a puddle incapable of thoughts other than meow, mrow, purr. "Look at that. There she goes, distracting me againnn… yes, right there." He nudges his hand into your palm, beatific.

"You should really charge rent for the amount of time I spend in your head, mister businessman. You'd make a killing off of me," you tease with a chuckle. Treating his scalp to one more generous rake of your nails, you then give the knotted tie one last approving pat. "There. You're now presentable."

"Yay!" He cheers with exaggerated joy, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Now gimme that sweet, sweet reward that I've earned. Please?"

"You mean for surviving the strenuous task of standing still? Oh, poor thing," You drawl, hating that you're fully intending on following through on it despite the way you jab at him.

"It was super exhausting and emotionally taxing," Satoru bemoans, but he doesn't put any effort into playing up his false wounds; he's too busy puckering his lips again and making obnoxious kissy noises through his teeth.

Smirking, you reach up to catch his chin between your fingers and run your coconut-balmed lips over the curve of his ear with a wispy little murmur, “I'll have to remember that next time you try telling everyone you're the terrifying head of the largest syndicate in Japan."

"I can be terrify… ing…” Satoru croaks, throat working out a wounded noise that you swallow up with a thorough, drawn-out kiss. You warm him up indulgently, your hand settling against the clean line of his jaw while his own instinctively finds your waist once more, fitting there with the ease of long habit. Mint lingers pleasantly against his tongue, chased by the faint warmth of coffee.

When you finally separate, Satoru looks at you as though you've personally hung the morning sun beyond the windows. "Can you make sure that I'm not floating through the ceiling?" He whispers dreamily, touching the corner of his lips.

You join in on his helpless laughter, smoothing one final wrinkle from the front of his jacket. "Both feet are still on the floor, you're clear. Now, is Ijichi outside? We need to go. Suguru's probably already wondering why we're late."

Satoru greedily reaches for your hand to intertwine your fingers while the other fishes his phone out of his slacks, halfheartedly glancing over his texts without even the slightest hint of guilt. "Apparently, he's been waiting out there for a long… minute."

"Poor guy, we left him hanging," you faux pout, just as much a menace as your husband is. Making Ijichi dawdle in his car was worth every minute spent with your husband. "Let's get to it, then."

"Sure thing. My lady," Satoru dips to gild the back of your hand in one last glossy-lipped kiss, your wedding bands clinking. His eyes gleam over the ridges of your knuckles as he purrs, "Your chariot awaits."