#parenting with jjk men | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

nezuscribe · 1 month ago

Text

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

pairing: gojo x fem!reader

summary: gojo satoru was the most notorious man across the land. he was the strongest soldier the north had ever produced, the most brilliant of minds, and somebody who slept his way through the noble ranks. his parents set him up in a marriage agreement with you, hoping that a tie with a ring would help save his image. you know gojo never wanted this, and you try to act as if that was normal. but soon, without you or even him realizing it, he comes to the conclusion that while he never wanted this marriage - he's beginning to want you.

warnings: 18+ mdni: arranged marriage, angst, slight no comfort, gojo is emotionally constipated for a bit, heavy making out, eating out (fem! receiving), fingering, (naoya)

word count: 19.7k (sorry)

note: inspired by this drabble. i'm so happy this behemoth of a fic is done!! art credit: _3aem

jjk masterlist + series masterlist

Gojo Satoru was the most powerful man alive.

Not only physically, though some people chalked him up to being half god, but his name held even more control. The Gojo family of the North was as old as the gods themselves, and they’ve been making sure it’s been kept that way. They owned so much land that you would walk to the ends of the earth and circle back around and it would probably still be theirs. They had armies of unfathomable sizes under their command, so much riches that they could probably buy an entire nation and still have plenty to spend.

His presence was just as large as his name created him to be. Any ball he went to, all eyes would fall on him. On the battlefield, men feared to see the flash of white hair, knowing that his strength was unbridled.

And his physical beauty? Most people assumed he was blessed by the gods himself. Gojo had a certain look that just made your knees weak, your heart palpitate, and your cheeks heated up. The handful of times you’ve seen him from afar you’ve been able to understand why all the girls (and some of the guys) yearned for his attention. His eyes were a piercing blue as if somebody had held a mirror to the sky when creating them. His hair had grown whiter with the years, as white as the snow that sunk deep into the grounds of the north. Gojo had the build of a soldier, and he towered over most people. His bulky build was intimidating, but you heard some girls whisper behind their hands about how he must look underneath all those ceremonial garments.

The lord of the North was power itself.

Which would make you, by martial association, the North's most powerful lady.

And for somebody who grew up with the same respect as a stable boy, it was all too much too soon.

And yes, while on paper you still had your father's last name and legacy tied to it, you weren’t really a daughter to your parents. Your mother, though you had to call her by her name whenever you weren’t in public, seeing how she wasn’t really your mother, made sure it was kept that way. Your other three half-sisters should have been in your spot, either one of them more true to the family name than you. But seeing how they’re already married, you were the final resort.

Gojo Satoru, though you’ve seen him countless times (something common because of how close in ranks your families were), had only acknowledged you a couple of times. You didn’t care much, never did, because that's what you were used to. After all, it was a common fact that you were what they nicknamed “the bastard daughter” of the West.

But it didn’t seem to matter much to his parents, as they offered their son up to you in a marriage arrangement.

And who were you to turn that down?

They, his parents, assured you that their son was looking forward to this union. He was the one to offer it, they said, which you were skeptical of but weren’t stupid enough to question. You knew how much Gojo Satoru was tarnishing their reputation with his promiscuous ways, but as long as he was okay with this arrangement you couldn’t find any part of you that would disagree with it.

After all, you knew that this marriage wasn’t out of love, fascination, or even a mutual understanding, but because of the strength your own family (more so your father) held, and how you were the only feasible option for a bride.

So, after weeks of rocking back and forth on agreements, paperwork, dress rehearsals, and grueling dancing lessons (and still no sight of the man himself), you found yourself standing at the end of the aisle, your arm linked around your fathers as a large smile plasters itself on your face.

Ever since you were young you had convinced yourself that the only man who would want to taint his name enough to marry you would have to be either a troll or an ogre, so that fact that your future spouse was human was better than anything you could have asked for.

And you’re not daft. As your heart hammered loudly against the limited space of your chest, waiting for your cue to start walking, you reminded yourself that this was just a mutual agreement. It’s hard for people at your level to marry for love, but even then, you can’t help but hope that you can make a decent friendship out of this.

You glanced at your father next to you, catching his eyes as he nodded once, staring ahead of him into the small crowd of just your two families, and patted your arm.

You still remember the music playing, the instruments harmonizing together as you took a tentative step forward, feeling warm under the eyes of people you didn’t know, but you kept reminding yourself that this was the best thing that could’ve happened to you. Either you died as an old maid in the little room you had near the kitchens at your old home or got married to some warlord who wanted an entire village as family.

The orchids that surrounded the venue still infiltrate your nose as you think about it, the way the silk of your dress felt against your skin that had been scrubbed raw earlier that morning.

And there you saw him, standing at the end of the aisle. At that moment you realized how much of a mistake this was,

Because the man that stood there, the man who you were about to marry, seemed like he’d rather be dead than be your husband.

—

You blink out of your trance, sitting up straighter in your seat as you mindlessly stop tearing up pieces of your bread, rubbing your fingers together to get rid of the remnants of flour.

The dining hall was huge, far bigger than the one back home. Though you rarely ate there, you could still remember it, and it definitely wasn’t as big as this. Yet, despite its size, you felt like you were a little grain of rice in its vastness.

The Gojo estate itself was humongous. His parents resided in a smaller house near the ocean now that you’ve moved in, but you would bet that the word humble they used to describe it was anything but humbling. You’ve been here for weeks and yet you feel like you’ve only discovered half of what this place has to offer.

There were guards at every corner, but at this point, you’re convinced they're just for decoration. If your husband is as decorated a warrior as they say he is, he could protect this entire estate with no help necessary.

You stare at your plate, at the array of food prepared just for you, different sorts of cured meats, loaves of bread, cheeses, fruits, and juices from all over, and still, you feel no hunger.

Months ago you’d be ecstatic to see how much your life has changed. You get new clothes that fit you, food whenever you desire, people at your beck and call. Your room is no longer that cramped space you’d been given to hide you away from the rest of your family, but twice the size of your father's old bedroom. You wake up earlier and sleep later, do whatever you want, but none of it feels deserved.

The only thing you can bring yourself to think about is how the last time you saw your husband was the night of the wedding. The look on his face when you made your empty vows to one another, his faint lingering kiss on your cheek. You can blink your eyes and still see the way he left, his jaw clenched as he ignored the calls from his parents. How, even here, rumors seemed to follow you.

Safe to say, you spent your meals alone.

Not only that, but your rooms were entirely separate as well. You were told that you had to consummate the night of your marriage, but from what you’ve heard, your husband sleeps in an entirely different wing of the estate, with walls and corridors between the two of you.

You tried taking your mind off of things, pretending as if this was normal.

Most days you’d walk around, trying to familiarize yourself with the layout of the grounds. You’d walk the gardens a couple times each week, try to memorize the way back to different places, and stay in the library the other half of the time.

A part of you was happy to at least be away from that miserable home, but it felt like swapping one prison for a slightly better one. Your maids were kind, of course, but you didn’t know anybody here. They treat you like a lady of noble ranking, as expected from being the wife of the Lord in the North, but you’d rather be given an apron and start working around instead of this mind-numbing boredom of just sitting around.

You stare at your plate, chewing on a grape slowly.

Looking up you see the sun filtering in through the large windows, illuminating the long table that sits like an empty grave. Clicking your tongue you pick up another grape, slumping in your seat as you look up.

This is just the way things will be.

—

“Alina?”

You call out from your vanity, staring at your maid as she’s picking out different earrings for you to pick from for dinner.

It’s a couple of days later, and still no word from Gojo. But that doesn’t mean that you haven’t stopped for a single second to not think about your supposed husband.

You try not to care, pretend that you’re lucky that he’s not bothering you or going out of his way to remind you of this unfortunate situation, but above anything you just feel alone.

The maid looks up, a curl falling from her tight bun as she smiles at you in the mirror.

“Yes, my lady?” She stands up straighter, flattening out the wrinkles from her apron tied around her waist as she begins walking towards you with the jewelry.

“Is this…is this normal?” You crane your neck around to look at the different pairs she’s holding up, nudging your head to the red ones that shine bright, and watch as she sets them down on your desk, resting her hand on your hip as she stares at you quizzically.

“What do you mean?” She asks as you begin taking your earrings off, putting the new ones on yourself. In the beginning, she protested, saying that a woman of your caliber shouldn’t have to do such measly tasks. But the more you protested, she eventually gave up.

“Do husbands and wives usually sleep separately?” you say, feeling your chest contract in embarrassment at the stupidness of your question.

You watch as she swallows thickly, avoiding eye contact as she sets on fixing some parts of your hair.

Staring patiently through the vanity mirror as you watch her work, Alina wets her lips, her eyes downcast as if not wanting to answer.

“Was there somebody else he preferred to marry?” You decide to ask, twisting that knife that you knew was lodged in her side, one that was stopping her from talking, and watch as her eyes widen slightly in shock.

“If you don’t answer I’m just going to keep asking more uncomfortable questions,” you warn and Alina snorts softly, shoving your shoulder a little bit as you crack a smile.

She moves around, picking up a necklace, and begins clasping it behind your neck.

“I…I don’t know. He’s always been pretty secretive and,” she looks at you briefly, “Selective. I don’t mean to speak ill of my lord but it would be stupid not to acknowledge his old ways. But we never heard of a specific girl.”

Alina places a gentle hand on your shoulder, a sad smile on her face.

“You’re lucky my lady,” she says, her voice hushed, “Most wives don’t have the freedom to say their husbands don’t care what they do. Had you married that Zenin, you’d be pregnant by now.”

You shudder out a breath, nodding once more.

“I’ll see you after dinner, my lady,” she says, moving out of the way as you stare quietly at the floor before leaving silently.

—-

Tonight for dinner the cooks made you a wide array of different dishes, all from the Northern shore. There are different types of fish, each cooked in various ways. It looks delectable, a feast fit for a king.

You feel awful, though, seeing that you can’t eat any of it.

The last time you had fish your face swelled up and couldn’t breathe properly, so that family physician told you to steer away from it. But you’re here now, and it somehow slipped your mind to ever mention this little fact to them, so you’re awkwardly poking around some of the vegetables under the fish, looking for something to eat.

You pile some potatoes and carrots on your plate, scraping off any bits of fish on them as you hold this wasn’t your last meal.

The only sound that fills the room is your fork and knife sometimes hitting the porcelain plate, and you look up every now and then as you chew, looking at the paintings on the wall.

You’re so focused on a portrait of an old man that you don’t even notice the figure standing at the entrance of the dining hall, not until you hear a muted curse.

You look up instantly, your fork and knife dropping to the plate as you stare at the man in front of you, eyes wide at the sight of your husband.

He stands there, blinking slowly as you stare back.

You could swear time has never moved so slowly before.

You can hear him mutter a quiet shit under his breath, not knowing if he should make this worse by turning around and leaving or if he should join you.

He’s wearing a simple tunic, his face a little flushed, hairline beaded with sweat. Did he just come out of training? He must often do that, you decide, seeing how he must’ve felt comfortable enough walking in here without any clothing of import.

His eyes seem to track your little movements; the way your chest rises and falls in a slow movement, the way your fingers have frozen in mid-air, lips slightly parting. Your eyes dart around the room, everybody seeming to have tensed up.

You open your mouth to say something, anything, but you’ve never been so moved to silence. It seemed as if years of learned vocabulary slipped your mind within an instant, and no matter how hard you tried, nothing was coming back.

Gojo looks behind his shoulder, at the large double doors he entered through, deep in thought. This would be the first time the two of you had seen each other in weeks, and his tirade of avoiding you has come to an end. It looks like an entire battle is being fought in his mind, and you don’t know what to do.

Suddenly, you watch as he shakes his head, deciding to give in and join you for dinner.

The seconds go by like hours as he walks up to the seat at the other end of the table, staring at his seat for a brief second before he pushes it out and sits there.

You don’t know what to do.

Servants and maids quickly swarm the room, setting up his plate, cutlery, food, and drinks. It was all so hectic and rushed, but you were glad that it offered some sort of noise in the drowning silence.

A part of you wants to say something about the fish but you know this isn’t the right time.

In the flurry of movements you allow yourself to discretely look at him a little better, seeing how the last time you saw him was so brief and hurried.

The man radiates a different sort of aura you’ve never experienced before. While your father was one of the most powerful men in the West, Gojo was the strongest throughout the majority of the North and East. His frame took up the entire chair, his muscular shoulders and arms visible even through the loose fabric that was draped over him. You feel a little disappointed, knowing that if you were a different girl you’d probably be able to enjoy all of this.

You try to make yourself seem indifferent, moving some of the vegetables in your plate around, but secretly just trying to shovel them down as fast as humanly possible to get out of this thick atmosphere.

One of the men who was setting up some of the plates in front of Gojo takes notice of this, a smile overtaking his face as you briefly look up from your plate, startled to see the man walking closer to you.

“My lady, I’m so happy to see you enjoying our Northern delicacy!” He claps his hands together as you stare at him with wide eyes, your mouth still full of potatoes as you try chewing faster to get it all down before he gets closer to you.

His eyes wrinkle around the edges, his graying mustache trimmed ever so carefully, and you can tell he’s trying to loosen up the tension, but you stare in abject horror as he stands at your foot of the table.

“Would you like some more?” He motions to the fish that lay untouched in front of you, and you glance over to Gojo, hoping that maybe he is focused on his meal, only for your heart to sink at the fact that he is staring at you.

“...y-yes,” you croak out, wiping some of the carrot remnants from the corners of your lips as you give him a wobbly smile, “It’s alright, I can serve myself,” you exclaim, trying to thwart him off as he quickly waves this aside, shaking his head as he grabs the tray, beginning to portion some hefty pieces of fish onto your plate.

You don’t have the heart to tell this jolly man that this amount of fish would kill you within an instant, or even that he was wasting this all on you, so you just sit there, giving him a tight-lipped smile as you try not to breathe it in too much.

“Is that enough, my lady?” He asks, setting the tray down as you look at your plate now full of different sorts of sea creatures you swallow slowly, looking back up at him as you give a wobbly smile.

“This is great,” you muster up and watch as an even larger smile takes over his face, and you feel awful for it, “Thank you so much,” you tell him, watching as he bows lowly, excusing himself as he, and the other servants, leave the room,

Leaving you and Gojo alone.

You’re grateful that he’s already dug into his meal, not looking at a struggling you that’s moving the fish around with your fork as you try to find the last bits of vegetables you had saved up for yourself.

The smell itself is enough to make your stomach turn, and you wince, reaching for your cup of wine to wash some of the nausea down.

“You have very good wine,” you say suddenly, against your will, and have an out-of-body experience as you realize what you just did.

Gojo looks up from his plate, a little startled as he looks at you and the goblet in your hand, his white brows furrowed.

He nods once, not saying anything, and you feel the strange need to continue, somehow enjoying the feeling of stabbing yourself in the foot.

“Our wine back home tasted like cow piss,” your eyes widened at your slip of crass language, “Er - not piss, um, urine…?” You wince even more, feeling as if a ghost with awful intentions had taken control over your body, “Not that I’ve had cow piss - urine!” You correct yourself, “But I imagine that if I had…that, um, it would taste like o-our wine back home...”

He’s staring at you, unblinking, and you smile awkwardly, raising the cup to him as a sort of cheers gesture.

You count twenty seconds of silence in your head as you set the cup down, playing with your fork as you glance back up at him. Gojo looks as if he is regretting his decision to stay, his fingers tapping on his knife in a hurried sort of way.

“I don’t really like wine,” you continue, feeling like the only thing that could stop you now was if somebody were to bludgeon you to death, “I like juice more. Oh, well, but I guess…wine is juice…?” you mutter to yourself, contradicting your own words mid-sentence, “Back home we had this mulberry juice and it tasted nice. Kind of like your wine,” he’s not even looking at you and so your words die, quieting down as you sink back into your seat, hoping it could eat you entirely.

“Do you like wine?” You ask, tilting your head to the side, smiling faintly, awkwardly, “Or juice? Or… mulberries…?”

He shakes his head, still not staring at you.

“Did you have a good-”

“I prefer eating in silence.” Gojo finally said, raising his head slightly as he stared directly at you, watching as your mouth clamped shut.

Your smile grows small, eyes falling to the table to hide the embarrassment in them. You give him a brief nod, mumbling a quiet apology under your breath as you begin moving some pieces of carrot around on your plate.

You can hear the clinking of his utensils against his plate, wishing you could somehow fit an entire fish down your esophagus to escape this moment.

You give it a couple of seconds, counting the groves in the wood of the table, and rise, stomach empty, heart churning as you finally excuse yourself.

It only takes you minutes to find your room, quicker than last night, and allow yourself to sink against your bed, rubbing your skin raw of the rouge Alina had applied an hour earlier.

—-

You don’t tell anybody of the awful encounter with the man that’s legally your husband, but you’re sure that those there to observe have already begun talking about it. You try to pretend nothing happened, but Alina could pick up on your closed-off demeanor that night, her hands gentler than usual when helping you take off your garments, her eyes filled with concern.

“How was dinner, my lady?” She asked, staring at you as you waved off her worries, mustering up a lame excuse of a smile as you took off your silk shrug, avoiding any sort of eye contact as you slipped into your nightly garments.

“It was good,” your words are void of emotion, “I had fish.”

The following days are empty of any sight of your husband, but you’ve grown to find that normal. It doesn’t help that you can’t stop thinking about how idiotic you acted, your big mouth never knowing when to stop, tossing and turning in your bed at your excuse of an interaction.

You continue with your old routine of walking around the estate, sometimes trying to track down Alina and your other maids, seeing if maybe they had some free time to spend with you. You know there’s a town nearby, the girls often talk about how they go there sometimes at night, but you’re too afraid of going out alone, not used to that sort of thing.

Sometimes you sit out near the fields with a book, twisting the ring that’s searing into your finger, mindlessly taking in the words on the page. Other days you walk around the gardens, picking out some flowers for the vase in your room. On the days when you’re feeling really adventurous, you’d go near the east wing, where you’ve heard Gojo’s room is, and look at what sort of things lie there. But most times you chicken out, going back near your side just as quickly as you went.

You never see him at dinner again, knowing he wasn’t about to put himself through that torture again, so you go back to eating in silence, sometimes pretending that the chairs were full of people and that you were in one of those balls you longed to go to as a kid.

They seem to keep bringing fish out for you, and it’s in so many days deep that you’re in this sort of limbo where you can’t tell them you’re deathly allergic to it without feeling awful for all the work they’ve put in just to realize it’s gone to waste, so those nights, tonight, for example, you try finding as many vegetables as you can.

The roasted asparagus and beets are lovely, but there was only so much of it. And you find yourself getting a little bit sick of it too, your stomach-churning as you try to chug as much water as you can to get rid of the dirt after-taste that the beets have.

You thank the cooks and the servants as you leave for the night, your stomach still relatively empty as you get to your room, telling Alina to leave early for the night as you get ready for bed by yourself, wanting to be with yourself just for a little bit.

You lay on your bed, staring emptily at the ceiling, one hand on your stomach as if gurgling, still hungry for more. You try to sleep, trying to pretend like you were at your old home, those nights when this would be normal, but it’s no use. You’ve been too spoiled at the Gojo estate, and no matter how much you try to ignore the pang of hunger, it continues to bite you back.

So you find yourself twisting off of the warm comfort of your bed, sitting in silence as you contemplate what you’re about to do, but give in, lighting a candle as you slide into some slippers, leaving your room as you try to find your way down to the kitchens.

Thankfully, it’s well into the night when everybody is asleep, so this embarrassing walk of shame is only seen by the guards on duty. You walk down the testing staircase, careful to look around the corners for anybody there, but you’re alone.

You make your way to the kitchens, not hard to find seeing that they’re near the dining hall, and you peep your head inside, a sigh of relief escaping your lips to find that it’s completely deserted.

At your old home, your room was behind the kitchens. You grew up in a small room, nearly the size of a broom cupboard, but you made do with what you had. One benefit of this situation was that you were raised by the smell of different sorts of food, by people who specialized in the art of cooking. You knew how to make meals that nobody else in your family could even imagine, which you’re grateful for right now as you fumble around the kitchen, trying to find where they put different ingredients.

You rummage through the cupboards, finding some eggs, bread, cheeses, and seasonings. You’re able to find the pots and pans a few feet away and start assembling everything for a little omelet.

In your hurry of trying to be quiet and careful, you somehow manage to miss the large shadow figure that’s standing near the doorway, observing you.

You crack the eggs into a bowl, beating them together with a fork you found, too tired to look for an actual whisk, turning around to throw the eggshells away when a cry of surprise escapes your lips.

“Oh!” Your heart nearly falls right out of your ribcage, your hands flying to your chest as you find yourself staring at him, cheeks heating the way they seem to do whenever you’re looking at your husband.

His blue eyes are tracking you, watching what you do, brows furrowed slightly as the two of you can’t do anything but stare at each other.

“I…” You can’t find anything to say, looking at him and then behind your shoulder, to the things you have found, and swallow thickly, wetting your lips as you straighten your back up, suddenly aware of just how flimsy and bedroom-worthy your outfit is.

You can only stare at the ways his arms are crossed over his chest, biceps bulging, and lips pressed into a thin line. It seems like he wasn’t planning on seeing you here, yet another moment in which he’s probably going to regret somehow finding you in such a large estate.

“I’m making an omelet,” you finally say, your words falling like a whisper from your lips as you point to the eggshells now discarded in the trash, “I tried to be quiet…” you shake your head, eyes dropping from his heavy gaze for a second as you glance back up at him, lips upturned in an apologetic smile, “...sorry.”

Gojo doesn’t say much, you’ve noticed that, but now you’re wondering if he has some sort of impediment that stops him from speaking to specific people.

His chest rises briefly as he inhales, his white hair a little tussled as if he were sleeping. It doesn’t make sense why he’d be awoken, though. The kitchens are a far walk from the east wing…?

“I wasn’t asleep,” he finally says as if reading your mind, his voice deep as you feel it rattle your bones.

You nod once, not knowing what to do with the information.

“Well…um,” you fidget with your fingers, “good, that’s good.” You nod once, as if that was all you were going to say, and look at the slight wrinkles in his clothes, crossing your arms over your chest, feeling naked with the way you’re not wearing any undergarments under your little nightly dress.

“I’ll call for a cook,” Gojo murmurs, looking you up and down one final time as he turns to leave, seemingly done with this conversation.

You sputter, shaking your head as you watch him turn to look at you through a confused stare.

“No! Sorry…no, no need,” you say quickly, taking one step forward as if to stop him, “Please, it’s alright. I can cook myself,” you motion once more to your eggs and little station, noting the way he’s looking at you strangely, and so you feel the need to continue talking, perhaps one of your worst flaws.

Gojo looks at you finally, his fingers tapping on his arm.

You notice that he’s not wearing his wedding ring, your chest filling with a strange feeling as you try to hide your ring-clad finger. “Do you not like their cooking?” He asks, and it takes a second for you to blink out of your stupor, a weird sensation in your throat as you shake your head slowly, trying to pull your eyes away from his hand.

“I do,” you assure him, the words falling thickly from your lips, a lump in your chest, “I just feel bad waking them up right now,” you shrug as if you weren’t feeling any of these strange emotions, “And as I said, I can cook…so…”

He nods, seemingly not believing you, not picking up on the storm that happening inside your head at the fact that he’s not wearing his wedding ring. You have to remind yourself that this isn’t an actual marriage, the ring was only for show.

“Did you not eat dinner?” He continues, pressing, and your eyes widen slightly.

You’ve always been terrible at lying, never able to do so. Even when your father's wife continued to drill you on who ate the candies from a party when you were younger, showing her your chocolate-stained fingers that you had hidden behind your back, not even a minute into the interrogation.

“I did,” you say slowly, rubbing up and down your arms to warm them up from the chill breeze that seems to have picked up from the open windows, “The beets and asparagus were very nice,” you agree, not knowing what else to say without blowing this weird secret you’ve been holding onto.

His brow raised slightly, lips pursing slightly.

“And the fish?”

You swallow once again, fidgeting with the fabric of your slip, your hands, your ring, and you don’t notice the way his eyes fall to the gold on your finger, darting back to your face when he notices you staring at him.

“I…” you feel your face heating up beyond human measures, laughing awkwardly as you tug at your necklace chain, wishing that you hadn’t made that stupid decision to leave your comfortable bed, should’ve listened to your gut instead of your stomach, cursing your past self for being so rash, “I, um, I can’t…eat…fish.”

Gojo’s stoic face, so sure and confident, seems to falter for a brief second.

His arms tighten over his chest.

“...what?” He eventually asks after a couple of seconds of mind-bending silence, his head tipping in utter confusion as you sway from side to side on your feet, chewing your lips raw as you wish the ground could open up and never spit you back out.

“The fish always looks great, don’t get me wrong,” you say quickly as if that’s going to do anything, “But I can’t eat fish. Otherwise I’ll swell right up and um, die…probably,” you wince at how bad you are at talking to people, your husband especially.

He lets out a little puff of air that sounds like a shocked scoff, eyes falling to the floor as he shakes his head, not understanding what you are saying.

“But they’ve been cooking fish almost…four times a week?”

You nod, smiling awkwardly, looking at the painting of a fish on the wall as you look back at him.

“They have,” you affirm, leaning against a counter as he stays frozen in his spot at the door.

“And you…you can’t have fish?” Gojo questions incredulously.

“I’ll swell right up,” you repeat with a little smile that he doesn’t mirror, clearly not a man of humor, and you drop your hands to your side, “...kind of like a pufferfish.” You add quietly, looking at the ground as you say it.

He coughs, his hand covering his mouth as you glance up at him, only to see him trying to hide the shocked laugh that had escaped him.

“Why didn’t you tell them?” He finally continues, and you hate the way all your hard work of just saying quiet isn’t working and is in fact, coming back to bite you in the ass.

You shrug once more, shoving a grain of rice that was on the floor with the tip of your shoe.

“The first time it happened I figured I’d just tell them next time, but then that man kept on giving me more fish so I felt bad and I just never said anything.”

Gojo stares at you, his eyes squinting together as if he were figuring out an enigma, a war strategy that even his best generals couldn’t get a grasp of.

You look away, feeling like a fire was being lit under your skin.

“Alright,” you say, clapping your hands together as your stomach grumbles once again, reminding you that it is still in desperate need of food, “I’ll be done soon. And I’ll clean up,” you promise, but you doubt he even cares as you begin to inch away from him.

You watch as a strand of hair falls into his face, watch as he goes to move, never breaking his eye contact with you, until he looks behind you at the eggs and bread, and then to the window behind you, the moon as bright as ever.

He nods a final time, looking over you a final time before he exits.

You make sure he’s far gone, letting out a heavy breath as you hold yourself up by the table, eyes wide at the fact that you had spoken more than two words to the man who seemed to despise your entire existence.

You go back to your eggs, whisking them in silence as your mind reels.

—

Gojo is there, for dinner, the following night.

You enter the dining room to see him at the end of the table, already eating, and glances up briefly when he sees you walk in.

Trying to hide the shock on your face you quickly look away, finding the way to your side of the table as you look around to see what they’ve given you tonight. A sigh of fleeting relief escapes your lips at the lack of fish, glad you’ll be going to sleep full of food tonight.

You serve yourself, piling roasted meats and potatoes onto your plate as you fill your cup with water, not trusting wine after the last time you had it in his presence, and pretend that everything is normal as you pick up your knife and fork.

His words rang in your mind from the last time, the fact that he ate in silence, so you forced yourself to clam up, knowing that it was probably from the best and save you from any more mortification.

Your eyes fleet up now and then, grateful that he’s never looking up when you do, and give yourself some time to really take him in. Maybe in another universe where everything was normal, this could’ve just been another regular thing, and you try pretending that it is.

He’s probably only here because of a timing issue, you tell yourself, maybe this was the only time in the middle of training, state affairs, or other things that he was able to have dinner tonight. Yes, yes, that has to be it.

You look back down at your plate, chewing as quietly as possible, missing the way he lifted his head to look up at you.

—

Dinner with Gojo becomes a strange weekly occurrence.

The two of you eat in silence a couple of times a week, and every time it happens you’re so sure it’s going to be the last.

On one of the nights you find yourself accompanied by the man you decide that the silence is more choking than whatever it is you find yourself saying.

“Have you been notified about this…gathering in a couple of weeks?”

This gathering was something you were told about that morning by Alina. One of the smaller families allied to the North, the Tokoshi’s, had invited you and your husband to join.

“Yes,” Gojo says, and you’re a little surprised that he didn’t just give you a faint nod, “It shouldn’t be too big.”

He cuts off a piece of his lamb, dipping it in some of the gravy as he glances up at you.

You try to hide your excitement, not only from the fact that he’s spoken to you but also from the fact that this was an actual ball you would be able to go to. You knew that marrying him meant attending more of these sorts of events, but seeing how this was your first one, it was hard to not act a little giddy.

“You have a lovely library,” you speak after carefully chewing through some of your food, your pointer finger resting on your fork as your legs crossed.

Gojo glances up at you, those mesmerizing blue eyes finding yours from across the long table.

“At my old home,” you pause briefly, wondering how he feels when you refer to his estate as your other home, “I wasn’t allowed to go into our library unless my tutors asked to have some of our sessions there. So I just wanted to say thank you for letting me - um, go there,” your words quiet down at the end, looking at the roasted pig in front of you momentarily as you wonder what you were even trying to get.

He takes a sip of his wine.

“The grounds are as much mine as they are yours,” he says, but his words sound rehearsed as if he were told to say this.

“Even the east wing?”

You regretted it the moment you asked it.

Shit.

Gojo opens his mouth and then shuts it. You chew on the inside of your cheek, waiting for him to speak, to say something, anything, but it reverts to that same silence that floods your senses and makes you aware of every other sound in the room.

Your burst of what you attempted at comedy seemed to keep coming back instantly in your face, a form of punishment for somebody who never knew how to make uncomfortable situations better.

Suddenly, all of your appetite is lost. Stupid, stupid, stupid, you can only chide yourself, the food in front of you, no matter how good it looked, felt like it would taste like ash on your tongue. You kept feeding this burning fire that was your marriage, expecting your hay-like words to act like water.

There’s a thick tension in the room, and you look around, blinking slowly as you fidget with your fingers.

You try to go back to eating.

You were wrong,

That initial silence was better.

—-

That night you found yourself back in the kitchens.

You’re wiping at your cheeks, hoping that the therapeutic motions of baking can help alleviate some of your many turmoils.

When you were younger, you were used to silence. People normally avoided you, and those who didn’t weren’t ever your age. The cooks at your old estate were kind, but they were usually too busy to entertain a little girl. You would usually help the maids out with their washing and folding, rather doing something than nothing. You would listen in on their gossip and stories, always happy to be included.

You assumed that it would be the same here.

But the maids assured you that a lady of such high rank shouldn’t be meddling in such lowly tasks, and the cooks here were cooking for such a larger number of people that you knew you couldn’t bother them the way you used to.

So you find yourself with a lot to say but nobody to say it to. The jokes and ideas that pop into your head fall flat because the old ladies who helped clean the bedsheets and used to laugh hearing them are no longer here. In those moments you’re with Alina or your other maids are sparse, and so you sometimes imagine that if you speak more when Gojo is around, he might warm up to you.

You also had to remind yourself that your track record with men wasn’t the best either. Those fleeting crushes on some of the other boys who you’d see at balls always ended with them scurrying away from you as if you were the plague. The only other marriage offer you’d gotten was from a man who had struggled with finding a woman who could keep up with his awful ways. So the fact that Gojo Satoru, the most well-known man in the realm, didn’t want much to do with you wasn’t shocking.

And Alina was right. A lot of wives aren’t as lucky to say their husbands don’t care, but you wondered how it would’ve been if he did. You exclaimed to her a couple of nights ago that you should’ve just married Naoya, but deep inside you knew that’s not what you wanted. A part of you knew ever since you agreed to this arrangement that you wouldn’t be getting an actual husband out of it.

You sniffle, your eyes blurry. You don’t like crying in front of people, and so you allow yourself to do so in the pale moonlight of the kitchen, the only sound other than your ragged breathing being the repeated sound of flour falling softly in your mixing bowl.

Baking was something that nobody ever could judge you about. You were good at it, and you knew you could do it with no error. Your cakes and pastries always turned out well, save for the minor problems you ran into as a kid, but you sometimes act like you’re baking for a group of people, about to take it out to see a sea of smiling faces who are happy to see you and your deserts.

“I thought you only cooked when they served fish for dinner.”

A voice, one that’s seared into your memory, says from behind you.

It takes everything in you not to jump from surprise, and it takes even more willpower not to turn around.

You quickly wipe at your cheeks, breathing in to make sure your voice won’t come out in bits and pieces. You keep your back to your husband, continuing to sift your flour in the bowl, a continual motion like waves hitting against the dock.

“I’m baking,” you specify, cringing at the way you sound like you’re fighting a nasty cold.

Gojo doesn’t say anything for a beat and does nothing to move. You’re glad he doesn’t, too scared that if he saw your puffy eyes or your tear-stained cheeks he’d begin to think that you have no backbone at all. It felt almost pathetic to have the world's strongest warrior see you recover from crying alone.

He hums in the back of his throat at your words, and you wonder what he looks like right now.

“I doubt these walls have seen a lady of such high rank before,” he comments, and you look up briefly from the mountain of white building up in the bowl, “They must whisper to themselves once you leave.”

You let out a little puff of air, something resembling a soulless laugh.

“Everyone whispers to themselves after I leave,” you say, reaching for a whisk, “I’ve heard more whispers than my own name.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and you hope he doesn’t notice the way you quickly try to wipe at the corners of your eyes.

“You come down here a lot,” it’s posed as a question, but Gojo says it like a statement. He must have eyes everywhere, reporting to him what you’re doing. You wouldn’t be shocked, but you just nod, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you begin to whisk your dry ingredients together.

“I hope it’s okay,” you throw in a pinch of salt as you mix, “I like the kitchen.”

He let out a little breath as if he was about to chuckle, but then he got confused. You decide to spare him the endless questions that must be going on in his head, wondering why somebody in your position would prefer the kitchens rather than anywhere else.

“My bedroom used to be behind a kitchen. I’d have to go through the pantry just to reach it,” you turn briefly to grab your bowl with the wet ingredients, pouring it slowly into your flour and sugar mixture, mixing it in slowly and carefully.

“My father’s wife wanted me out of sight. That estate had never used one of its actual bedrooms to sleep the daughter of a whore,” you can hear him inhale sharply, “I woke up to the sounds of people shouting for different ingredients, to pots and pans clanging against each other. I learned how to cook and bake when I was young, and I usually helped them cook the food my family would eat for dinner.”

When your batter is all mixed through you go to find the pan you have buttered and dusted with sugar, pouring it in as you wipe off the side of the bowl that had some remnants of batter dripping from it.

“They never asked me to, but I liked it. I liked feeling useful,” you peek over to your side, seeing him leaning against the wall adjacent to you, silent as a mouse.

You walk over to the other side of the kitchen with your pan, careful with the lid to the brick oven, heated with the fire you had lit an hour ago, and slide your cake pan into it, closing it shut as you stand up straight.

Finally, you look over at him.

His eyes rake over your face, lingering on the circles underneath your eyes, the redness that stained the whites of them. He’s clad in the simple tunic and breeches he had worn to dinner hours ago, his large shoulders leaning on the wall as his arms lay crossed over his chest.

“I won’t go to the east wing,” you say in a whisper, your voice quiet but heavy as it falls from your lips as a promise, trying to muster up a smile but it comes out wobbly, “I was just trying to make you laugh.”

His lips looked pinker than usual as if he had been chewing on them, something you often did when you were deep in thought. His white hair had been messily pushed back as if his fingers had been combing through them continuously.

“These grounds are yours,” Gojo says, his words thick from his throat. His exhale and inhale mirror the way you breathe, your two chests rising as though living with the same lungs.

You shrug, a melancholy look on your face as you shake your head.

“Maybe if I was your wife,” your words are said without any malice, “But I’m just another person who sleeps here.”

Gojo tilts his head slightly as if your statement had somehow wrenched itself into his mind, weighing it down. Even in the limited light, you could see the way he looked at you, an unreadable expression on his face.

“I’m sorry about all of this. I know I took away your chance to marry somebody you actually wanted, but my father told me you were okay with the arrangement. I wouldn’t have agreed to it otherwise,” you twist your wedding ring around your finger mindlessly, a little habit you’ve grown over the weeks here, “I never wanted to be selfish, and I truthfully never wanted a husband. I just wanted a friend.”

—

Ever since that night, you eat your meals in your room.

Alina protested, saying it’s not right to eat alone, but you told her not to think about it, saying how you liked the silence.

You mustered up the courage to ask some of the coachmen to take you to the nearby town, starting by looking around at the little shops, keeping a hood over your head in case somebody saw a new stranger.

Sometimes you’d go inside the shops, finding little trinkets that you thought your maids might like, or ornaments that might help fill up the empty spots around your room. You’ve never been able to decorate before with how small your old room was, so you decided to take advantage of its space.

When you’re walking around you sometimes see Gojo, either in the training yard or walking around with one of his advisors. There have been moments when the two of you catch each other's stares from across the room, but you’re always the first to look away, making sure you’re going in a different direction than him.

You knew that you’d have to talk to him eventually, especially with the gathering that was coming up at the Tokoshi manor, but each night you pretended it was another day away, instead of one day closer.

Your maids came bustling in and out of your room more often than usual with preparations for the night that was closing in, shoving you into different dresses, not satisfied until they found the right one.

Alina noticed your shift in demeanor, never picking and prodding at it, but silently observing. You could tell she knew something was wrong, but you didn’t know how to put exactly what you were feeling in words.

It didn’t help that the closer you got to the night of the event Gojo seemed to be everywhere you were. The gardens, the library, the field, the stables. He probably just had business to attend to, but it didn’t help that whenever he saw you it looked like he wanted to say something. It also didn’t help that you’d scurry away when you saw him open his mouth.

The weeks turned into days, the days into a day, and that day into hours and you found yourself perched uncomfortably on a chair as three different women attended to your face, hair, and accessories.

You watch them work silently, taking in all the jewelry and makeup that you’ve been looking forward to wearing. It’s nothing too drastic, but that

girl who longed to wear pretty things inside of you is gleaming right now.

“…Lord Gojo requested for her to wear another pair of earrings,” one of your maids says, looking at the earrings Alina had picked out for you.

Your ears perk up at the mention of his name, watching Alina as she perks an eyebrow up.

“When did he request that?”

The older lady looks at you in the mirror and then at Alina.

“A couple of nights ago,” she shows Alina another pair, a sapphire one that seems to gleam brightly, “he dropped them off when she was…away…” the maid trails off, noticing the fact that you were eavesdropping.

Your eyes dart away as if that would help, but she quickly changes the topic, and you huff in annoyance as Alina sends you a knowing look.

“Your husband is a strange man,” Alina mutters in your ear as you giggle quietly, rolling your eyes as she playfully shoves your shoulder.

You don’t say anything in retaliation, and sit back as you put in your new earrings, grateful that they still complimented the color of your dress, and try to pretend you are going down for dinner rather than a gathering with people you didn’t know.

You’ve been learning this entire week how to properly hold a spoon and fork, and how to cut your food appropriately. You’ve been taking dancing lessons, discovered how to properly greet people, and even learned how to gracefully enter and exit a horse-drawn carriage. All things you should’ve probably learned earlier, but were never able to.

Alina helps you out of the chair when they are all done, giving you a second to look into the mirror. The dress they had wrangled you into was beautiful, your hair done in the way you liked. You thanked them all, expressing your endless gratitude for their hard work.

You take a deep breath as you exit the room and go out into the hall, leading yourself down the stairs and through multiple corridors, trying to calm down your palpitating heart.

It takes a few minutes but you find yourself at the front of the manor, standing alone and looking around, trying to see if you were at the wrong place. But in the distance, you can see the coachmen and the carriage, the door shut, still waiting for you.

You take a tentative step forward, nearing the entranceway that leads outside, but feel a soft touch hovering above your elbow.

It’s strange how he usually finds you before you find him, but as somebody who’s trained to know and find things before others do, you suppose it makes sense. You glance to your side, already expecting to see those cerulean eyes as you look up.

Gojo looks good, somehow better than usual.

He’s clad in dark blue garments, intricate with Northern design, and your eyes look up and down his entire body. His usual muscular build seems to be outlined by the stretch of his overcoat, the way the fabric is sitting snugly over his chest.

He seems to be doing the same, though. You can feel his gaze drop to your dress, to the way your lips are a little redder than usual, your hair done in a way that suits your face. His eyes linger on your ears, and there’s a small, barely noticeable tug to the corners of his lips.

“Ready?” Gojo asks, the first time he’s spoken in a couple of weeks, and you hum.

He takes his hand away from your elbow as he rests it on the small of your back, and you feel heat travel from his fingertips through the fabric, through your corset, your undergarments, and straight to your skin.

They bring the carriage out a little closer, a coachman opening the door for you. You brace yourself, heaving your dress upwards as you go to grasp the rail on the side.

But Gojo moves swiftly, offering you his glove-clad hand as you look over at him in surprise, taking it after a moment of hesitation, and haul yourself inside.

It’s far bigger than the one you usually take to town, and you settle for a corner on the left-hand side near the window. The walls of the carriage are lined with this sort of fabric that feels like it’s lighter than a cloud, colored the traditional blue of the Gojo family. You’d guess it could fit at least an entire family comfortably, so you’re not too worried about the underskirt of your dress taking up too much space.

You watch Gojo follow you in. He looks around, having to duck his head (and a lot of his back) as he sits in front of you, pushing the strands of hair that had fallen into his face.

The two of you sit in awkward silence, your gaze settled on the door that they shut after Gojo entered, and your eyes quickly fall to your hands resting in your lap, neatly folded.

The carriage starts a little bit later, the wheels humming to life as the coachmen yip at the horses to start. The sudden rocking movement that you’ve become familiar with sways you side to side, and suddenly you're totally aware of the fact that you’re alone in a limited space with the man you’ve been avoiding for the better half of two weeks.

You can feel his stare boring into the side of your head, can hear the way his breathing is coming out strangely as if he wanted to talk, but kept stopping himself off before he could say a word.

“Did you like the earrings?” Gojo finally asks, and you glance up, eyes narrowing for a second in confusion as realization suddenly comes rushing in.

“Hm? O-oh, yes!” You quickly stutter out, your hands flying to your ears as if you forgot they were there, “Yes, thank you. They were beautiful. They kind of looked like the inside of a belly button,” you say.

Your husband blinks, brows furrowed slightly as you think about what you had just said, eyes wide in shock.

“Er…well, gods, no, not bellybuttons,” your head falls to your hands as you shake your head profusely, “Sorry, they don’t look like belly buttons-”

But you stop when you hear a small laugh from him, quiet as he looks away for a second, a tiny slightly visible grin on his face as he looks back at you.

“Did you know that sometimes,” his eyes are a little upturned as if he fighting back an actual smile, “I make a bet with myself about what you’re going to say?”

You smile slightly, your head cocking to the side.

“Have you ever won?”

Gojo chuckles, and your eyes suddenly fall to his hand, at the way he’s fidgeting with his ring, his wedding ring, the same way you seem to do whenever you’re thinking about everything and anything all at once.

“Not once.”

You grin, and though you still feel this heavy weight of unspoken things resting in the middle of you two, you decide not to acknowledge it at the moment. Things unsaid, unheard, weaved through the air, tying you and him together like a tapestry.

You fidget with your skirt, looking out the window at the moving scenery.

Gojo breathes deeply through his nose, his pointed finger tapping on his thigh.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” he finally says, and your eyes dart away from the trees and the sky to look over at him.

His bottom lip is caught underneath his teeth, his blue eyes shining with a different hue. He takes up a lot of room with just his size alone, but it looks like he’s trying to make himself seem less intimidating, less of a warrior, and more of a…person.

You don’t say anything, opting to stay quiet to see what it is that he is trying to formulate into words.

“That night,” Gojo twists his ring back and forth with his thumb, “I…” It’s weird to see somebody so sure of themself struggle to speak, and your brows crease in the middle, not knowing what it was he was trying to get at.

“I wanted to tell you that you too had a right to a good husband. Somebody who didn't rush you into a marriage because of his own mistakes…somebody you wanted.”

Where is he going with this?

You suddenly feel your throat dry up, swallowing thickly as Gojo looks out the window momentarily before looking back at you.

“My parents never told me who I’d be marrying,” Gojo explains, his voice hoarse, “I figured out the day of the wedding,” he twisted his wedding ring, looking at the way it shined, “And I wanted to hate you,”

His words punch you square in the gut, but you can only bring yourself to keep on looking at him.

“I wanted to hate you so much because it would be easier to act like this wasn’t my fault if I could…but,” he sighs, his chest rising and falling, “I don’t think it’s possible to hate you.”

Your lip trembles slgihtly, a sheen over your eyes. What is he doing?

“I’ve been raised in a way most people our age aren’t. My parents wanted me to be the strongest so was put into training since I was four, and I think this entire time I’ve been trying to approach you like a…military strategy. You were this map in my head that no matter how I approached it nothing made sense. But that night, in the kitchen, everything finally did.”

Your eyes flitter downwards so that he couldn’t see the waver in them

“You didn’t deserve how you were treated in your old life, nor this new one,” his hand covers his chest, and you feel lightheaded, “And I promise to you I’ll do everything in my power to make this one better. If you don’t want me as a husband, than as a friend.

“I’d like to be your friend, if you’d allow me,” he whispers thickly, his voice heavy. He fidgets with his fingers, moving them together and back out again, and you notice how he does this a lot whenever you’re near.

Your heart is beating so quickly that you feel like it's going to stop, and your mind is working so hectically that you don’t know what to think. This is the same man who looked at you as if you had torn down the moon and stars when he saw you the first time, the man who never seemed to be that interested in what it is you had to say. The very same person who would’ve rather married a broomstick than you.

…right?

And yet he’s here, asking to be your friend. Something that nobody has ever asked before, something that people wouldn’t ever dare to murmur out loud to you. He had no beneficial gain from doing this, no ally that he would please if he offered to be your friend.

Your heart twists because why does he look like he cares about what you say? His eyes are creased slightly around the edges, his lips pressed together as if he were preparing for whatever outcome it was to what you said.

Nobody has ever told you those things, the things that made years of pain and hurt strummed into one beat that your heart never wanted to drum to. This man, your husband, Gojo, was supposed to be another cog in that old machine, one that hummed and spurred like it was about to eat you alive.

But the more you look at him, the more you let your unspoken words speak in silence for you, you realise that he isn’t lying.

You open your mouth to speak but are cut off when the carriage comes to a sudden halt.

The two of you look at each other and then to the door, watching as it opens up, greeted to the sight of a large manor with multiple people walking in hand in hand. You swallow your bile, not knowing what to say, deciding to flee instead of face him like you should’ve.

—

The gathering itself was far more boring than you imagined it to be.

You and Gojo had the mutual understanding to act more…well, like a couple, than you actually were. You didn’t comment on the way his arm circled around your waist a couple of minutes into making your rounds talking with people or the endearing way he referred to you as my wife.

You’re glad that he doesn’t do anything to talk about what he had told you in the carriage whenever the two of you were alone, acting like nothing was wrong and everything was normal as he inquired about your day.

You told him brief things, still trying to shove his words out of your mind, but it was no use. I’d like to be your friend, your mind kept repeating, and you were too scared of brining it up in case he had changed his mind in between those minutes of quiet.

People you had never seen before congratulated you on your new marriage, their brows raised in that excited way as they motioned to your stomach, hinting at a special little someone who might be joining your lives soon.

“Soon!” You said with a curt laugh, glancing momentarily at Gojo only to see him already looking at you, a light blush dusting his cheeks.

He made sure not to stay with people who were strangers to you for too long, not wanting to bore you to death, and allowed you to take in more of the well-lit and vastly decorated manor.

Though its size was incomparable to the Gojo estate, it was still massive. The Tokoshi family had been a family with the Gojo one for centuries, so there was no question that the riches they had amassed over the years by being trading partners with them had culminated in this.

Gojo told you earlier in the carriage, before everything else, how the young Tokoshi couple were good people. They liked to throw parties a couple of times a year, inviting only a select few. He liked them far more than a lot of the other people he had been forced to grow up with over the years.

You look at the dining hall, at the corridors with openings that allow you to look outside without the glare of glass. His arm never left your body, holding you close to him as he let you walk around, your mouth hanging open slightly as you craned your neck to look at everything. Candles were lit everywhere, the bouquets of different assortments of flowers decorating the stone flower holders carved into the walls.

You mentioned to him in the privacy of the carriage, that you hadn’t ever been able to experience a party of this sort of caliber before. You could see how he wanted to ask more questions, but you could see the answers already formulating his head as to why.

“We probably look like one of those couples where the wife’s dying and the husband takes her out to see the stars one last time,” you whisper to him, still looking around in a stunned sort of way at the beauty of it all.

Gojo’s head ducks down a bit, trying to hide the chuckle that had broken out and made its way onto his face. He coughs into his fist as if that was the issue, but you look over at him to see the humor in his eyes.

“Did you lose your bet again?” You ask, glancing at him from the corner of your eyes as he looks like he’s fighting the grin that’s threatening to take over.

“I’m always losing that bet,” he tells you.

Though he doesn’t do anything to bring up his conversation, you can see it in the way he looks at you, as if he’s still teetering on an edge, wanting to know what you were thinking in that frazzled mind of yours.

You decide to push past it.

“Can I get in on it?” You ask, turning slightly so that you face him, very aware of the fact that his hand hasn’t moved from its spot on your waist.

You try not to think about it, reminding yourself that it’s just for show, but you can’t stop the feeling of heat that travels wherever it is he seems to touch you. His hand is larger than an average one, his fingers moving mindlessly up and down on your corseted stomach.

“Do you need the extra coin?” His voice is carrying a strange tone…is he teasing you?

But again, you try not to think about it, it’s all for show, (you also try not to think too much of the fact that you’re pretty separated from everybody else).

“No, I just need coin,” you explain, fixing one of the medallions on his chest that had been slightly slanted, “I have nearly nothing left.”

Gojo moves barely away from you, his eyes searching yours as if to find the joke.

“Have you run through my family gold already?” His voice is still toying, but now it’s filled with a little confusion.

“No, of course not,” you snort, rolling your eyes as you tilt your chin up to look at him better, “I haven’t touched any of your gold. I just ran through mine.”

His brows quirks upward, mouth parting slightly.

“You’ve emptied the gold your family sent up?”

It’s your turn to be confused.

“What gold?” You ask, moving away from him, his hand falling to his side, and you suddenly miss his warmth.

You remember your father talking about how the Gojo family had rejected your initial dowry, saying something along the lines of outlandish practices, but aside from that, you weren’t told about any other sort of money that was supposed to be sent with you.

He pinches the bridges of his nose, sighing deeply.

“The gold that they sent with you? It wasn’t supposed to be a lot but it was supposed to suffice for the journey here.”

You blink owlishly at him.

“What gold have you run through?” He specifies, plastering on a fake smile when he catches the eyes of somebody behind you, but then focuses his stare back to you.

“Well…” you shrug, “My gold.”

Gojo looks like he’s about to make a new bet, one that’s with every time you’ve almost given him an aneurysm trying to figure out your strange riddles and rhymes that are supposed to be actual words.

“I used to make some gold at my old home,” you explain, keeping your voice low in case somebody was somewhere that you hadn’t seen, but realizing that Gojo was lost, you continued, “The stable boy gave me some of his salary if I took care of the horses and cleaned the stables. Sometimes he’d give me extra if I could haul in the large bags of hay.”

He scoffs, shaking his head slightly.

“Why?” That seems to be a question he’s been asking lately.

You shrug again, feeling his hand circle back around your waist as some people come near you,

“I needed new clothes and my shoes had holes in them. My father’s wife didn’t let him give me much, so I tried to fill in the gaps.”

You smile at one of the couples that are coming near you, going back into your other persona as you begin chatting with them. Gojo pulls you in tighter to his side, staying silent. You don’t notice the way he hasn’t stopped staring at you, nor the way his heart seems to have churned so painfully in his chest.

—

The night progresses and you find yourself inside the dining hall, being shown to your seats by one of the maids, finding your name next to Gojo’s on a name card.

The two of you sit down, watching the people the file in, the sound of laughter filling the room, the clinking of china against each other filling in the rest of the silence. You take it all in with a smile, looking every and at everyone.

“I hope I’m not embarrassing you,” you whisper as you lean closer to Gojo, an apologetic smile on your face as you sit further into your seat, “This is all just so new to me.”

You don’t see the ways his eyes soften, his hand inching closer to yours as he shakes his head.

“You’re not embarrassing me,” he murmurs back, leaning his head closer to yours, wanting his words only to be heard by you, “I’m glad you’re enjoying this.” The smile that makes its way onto your face could power the universe, and Gojo feels like the wind had been knocked from his lungs, far worse than in training when somebody's foot slams into his chest.

“I am!” Your enthusiastic and hurried words are hushed, but he can still hear the way you’re trying to hide your joy. The small talk is horrific,” he laughs a little bit, “but still I love it.”

He opens his mouth to speak but is cut off by the sound of a knife hitting glass.

“Everyone! Give me your time, just for a moment!” Miyo Tokoshi, whom you spoke to briefly, stands up, his chair behind him.

All eyes in the room fall on him, people still smiling, their teeth glimmering in the light.

“I cannot express my joy to be in a room with you all tonight,” he says, looking around the room, making sure he saw everyone for a split second. “And my wife and I couldn’t be more ecstatic to host the first gathering of the season!”

You look at the woman sitting next to him, Lana, who you had also met momentarily, is gleaming at him, her face full of genuine adoration. She, along with everybody else, claps, laughing joyfully.

You wonder if this is what a real husband and wife should look like, and you look briefly over to Gojo, your mind reeling with the charade the two of you have been playing this entire night.

“And we couldn’t be happier to welcome the first couple of the year,” he exclaims, pointing his glass over to you and Gojo, saying your name and then your husbands as he claps his hand softly against his wrist, “May every moment you spend together be better than the last. We wish the two of nothing but a lifetime of happiness and prosperity.

Gojo raised his glass to him, his hand grasping yours as he lifted it to his lips, planting a kiss on the back of it.

You feel like you’ve stopped breathing with the linger of his lips on your skin, the last time that happened on the night of your wedding, and watching him grasp it even tighter when he sets it back down, weaving his fingers through yours.

Stop, you chide, raising your glass as well, a shaky smile on your face, it’s just an act.

He winks at the two of you, nodding once more as he focuses his stare somewhere down the table, obstructed by where you are sitting.

“And to the future couple! Naoya and Freya!”

Gojo turned his head immediately to look at you, watching the color drain from your face, and before you knew it, the man, Naoya, was standing up, a hand over his chest in faux gratitude as he thanked the host.

You could never mistake that hair, the feline look in his eyes as he scanned across the room, a slimy smile on his face. You watch as it grows even wider when he finally catches his prey when he finally sees you, and you feel nauseous, like you’re about to throw up all those little crackers they had given you earlier that evening.

The hand holding yours squeezes, knowing he can’t say anything right now, and you swallow thickly, eyes darting over to his as you feel your head about to sway.

Naoya’s here. The man you turned down for Gojo.

The rest of Tokoshi’s speech is muted to you. It feels like your head is being held underwater, and you feel sweat dotting your forehead, your chest, and your palms. You can feel Gojo’s eyes on the side of your head and can tell he’s trying to tell you something silently.

The clinking of glass brings you out of your haze, looking up mindlessly as you haphazardly clink yours against Gojo’s, rubbing a hand down your face as if that would help.

You're grateful for the flurry of movements and noises, everybody talking to somebody, the people beginning to serve themselves the wide array of food places in front of them.

Gojo squeezes your hand one more time, and you finally look over at him, trying to muster up a smile but with how queasy you feel and the way your head spinning, it probably looks like you’re about to be sick all over him.

“I’ll be okay,” you say through clenched teeth.

Gojo nods, his thumb rubbing up and down your hand in a soothing way. It’s just for show.

“I’m sorry my palms are sweating,” you laugh mirthlessly, and he squeezes it again, you’re sure he’s only doing this because of the extra attention of the two of you ever since they realized you and Naoya were in the same room, “you don’t have to keep holding it.”

“Do you want me to let go?” He asks, and you stop poking around at the turnips on your plate.

No.

“N-no,” you croak out, desperate for his touch that’s grounding you, “No, please.”

Gojo nods, his thumb not stopping its comforting motion of moving up and down.

“Don’t worry,” he mutters, leaning closer to you as you duck your head so that your ears are near his lips, “My hands get sweaty too.”

You laugh quietly and it sounds like wind chimes. You look at Gojo and watch as his lips tug upwards into a soft smile, one you had never seen before, and one you thought you never would.

—

You tried to hide away the rest of the party, but Gojo didn’t seem to mind.

When it was time to leave you accepted the gracious hug of the hosting couple, promising them that you’d come back for a more private dinner, and let Gojo lead you out into the courtyard where all the carriages were held.

You slept the entire ride home, not wanting to mess anything up by taking, and you’re happy that Gojo didn’t bother you. You felt groggy when you returned to the estate, grateful for Gojo’s steady hand as he helped you out of the carriage. The two of you looked like you wanted to say something, but couldn’t, so you bid each other good night and went your separate ways.

Separate except for one brief moment.

You were walking away and up the stairs when you suddenly stopped, remembering what it was that you wanted to tell him. You call out his name, watching as he turns, white brows slightly furrowed.

“I…” you start but realize you didn’t exactly have a plan for what you wanted to say. He gives you his patience, not looking annoyed or frustrated when you try to think of the right words to string together.

“I…I would like to be your friend too,” you finally say, and watch as a smile forms on his face, his pink lips tugging upwards in a way that made his eyes shine, the way your earrings did in the candlelight.

He rakes his hand through his snow-white locks, pushing them away from his face.

“I’ll see you at breakfast then,” Gojo says, and you dip your head down in a small smile.

You give him a small wave, disappearing as you round the corner.

And since then, you found him joining you not only for breakfast or the sparse dinners but for any meal he possibly could.

Gojo talked more, about anything and everything, and you did the same.

You realized that he was actually an open person the closer you got to him, seeing that he too was capable of laughing and making jokes, his teasing eyes growing more frequent the closer your chairs got to the dinner table until you eventually just sat side-by-side, growing tired of shouting at each other across its length.

On the days he wasn’t busy with strategizing or talking to other lords, he’d walk around the estate with you, telling you stories from his childhood, the times he’d run amock around the halls. Other times the two of you would go into town, looking at the different stores together.

You could tell he was trying, could see it in the way he glanced at you from time to time to make sure that you were doing well.

He’d accompany you to the library if you asked him to, and you’d go down sometimes to the training yard just to see him. Gojo would never tell you how much he tried to show off when you were there and knew he never had to. You could see the way he tried to appear even stronger when fighting with one of the other men, the poor soldier coming out with bruises and cuts all over his body.

Over many weeks, you find yourself looking forward to spending time with him, and a part of your cracked self begins mending itself again.

It felt like after years of searching for somebody, somebody found you.

On one of the nights when his sparring had gone on for far longer than it usually does, you decided to head down to the training yard after your night bath, tugging on a large robe over yourself as you walked the familiar stone steps down to where you knew he was.

You could hear them before you saw them, a cacophony of fists hitting skin, groans, shouts from one another. There was a little perch from where you could watch what was happening below, and you usually hid yourself in a corner so that they wouldn’t see you.

You’d rest on a pillar, arms crossed over your shoulder as you looked at the men below. Gojo was always easy to find, the flurry of white hair a tall-tale sign of where he was. You had watched him before, but you never got tired of it. You found it almost inhuman the way his movements seemed to flow like water, the way his hits were precise and direct.

Gojo truly was the best warrior the North had ever seen, and sometimes you forget that you’re married to a man who brought down entire armies with just his bare fists.

You watch as he jests with one of his friends, his chest rising a little bit at an irregular pace, slightly out of breath, but happy to be there. He turns to one of the guys behind him to say something, but his eyes immediately track upwards to the figure trying to stay hidden, you and a wide smile break out on his face.

He waves at you, and it gets the attention of the other men there. They all turn to see where you are, their boyish grins and calls making you roll your eyes at their antics, your face heating up slightly as you wave back at them.

Gojo says something to the person next to him, and you hear the man shout at the other ones to wrap it up for the night. Some of them wave goodbye to you as they begin exiting, going back to their common rooms.

You make a move to lean slightly over the railing, your arms crossed over the wood as you peer down at the ground where Gojo remained alone, finding him to already be looking up at you.

“Care to come down?” He juts his chin at the staircase to your left, the one that leads down to the courtyard, and you nod, disappearing behind the stone pillars as you take the steps leading downwards.

You’ve been here a couple of times, as per your own request. You wanted to see what they did during training, what the training yard actually looked like from the ground. You lift the ends of your dress up slightly as you near the bottom, rounding the corner to see Gojo standing in the middle.

He’s waiting for you, his eyes tracking your movements as you come near to him.

His nose twitches slightly, his eyes squinting as he lifts his head in the air, suddenly picking up the scent of something unusual.

“What’s that smell?” Gojo asks as you come to him, his eyes looking over your body as if it were emitting from you.

You scoff, appalled, and then suddenly remember that Alina had applied some lavender oil to you after your bath.

“If it’s a good smell then me,” you cross your arms over your chest, nose wrinkling in disgust as you take in his smell of sweat and grime, “If bad then you.”

Gojo snorts, coming closer to you as he continues sniffing, exaggerating the sound. You step away from him slightly, the smell of sweat overpowering, and he takes notice of this.

“What?” He inquires, annoyed that you are moving away from him, and he takes a step closer.

“What do you mean what?” You tease, moving again as he tries to smell the air, “You smell like an army of unshowered men. I just took a bath.”

Gojo seems offended at this, trying to move back closer to you but you side-step him, apparently serious about this.

“You really won’t let me come near you?” He sounds like you’ve kicked him down, his cheeks stained pink from earlier, and you laugh slightly, shaking your head.

“I really won’t,” you affirm, shoving the back of your wrist to him to show him that what he was smelling was in fact you, “See? Lavender oil.”

Gojo just seems to be getting more annoyed the more you try to evade him, his blue eyes swirling with an idea as you look at him in worry.

“No, the smell is coming from somewhere else.” He argues, changing his footing so that he stands right in front of you and you let out a shocked laugh, not expecting this as you take a step back.

You don’t know where else he can smell the lavender oil. Alina dotted it to your wrists and your neck, but surely can’t differentiate the difference in location…right?

“Come here,” he almost whines, “I’m not going to rub off my smell onto you.”

You laugh again out loud, picking up the skirt of your dress as you try to outrun him slightly.

“You will!” You insist, motioning to the sheen of sweat on his body, “You reek of sweat. I swear it’s just lavender oil!”

He groans, his eyes rolling to the back of his head at this inconvenience.

“You’re killing me right now,” Gojo dramatically grabs his chest, “You won’t let me smell this strange aroma and it’s killing me,” his face breaking into a little pout as you laugh even louder, shocked at how petulant he was being. Your laughing seemed to spur him on even more, running towards you as you ran backward, hoping you didn’t trip on the fabric of your dress.

“You have a plethora of bottles of lavender oil in your own room,” you argue, “this isn’t something innovative that you’ve never smelled before.”

Gojo shakes his head, and your heart flutters at the way his smile is so playful and teasing, the way some of his hair falls into his face in that messy way when he’s usually training and not caring about his appearance.

“It’ll only take a second,” he reasons and you shake your head no, your eyes both shining with playful laughter.

The courtyards lead out into the large fields of the Gojo estate, and you look behind yourself at the opening. It’s night, there’s nobody around. Nobody would judge you for running away from your sweaty husband.

You look back at him, see the gleam in his eyes, and know that he’s not going to back down.

He can see the thoughts forming in your head, can assume them before they’re even created, and so he’s straight on your heels as you sprint away from him, a large smile on your face as you squeal out loud.

“Please!” You shout over your shoulder, running down the little hill as the moon lights the way for you, “I just took a bath! Leave me alone!”

You can hear the grass rustling beneath your feet, your screams of laughter contagious as you try to outrun the fastest person ever, and try not to slow yourself down by looking over your shoulder to see where he is.

But after a couple of seconds of running you realize that the only footsteps you hear are your own, and you pause momentarily to look behind you and are surprised to see that he’s not there.

Did he not come after you?

You look around the field, the large blades of grass looking like waves that move with the wind, and whip your head around every time you hear a twig snap.

You're a little bit further away from the manor itself, and the only thing you can see besides its large stone walls are the torches lit outside. You can make out the guards who are standing outside, but no sign of Gojo.

You try to catch your breath, confused as to where he could’ve gone when a force stronger than a horse running at full speed slams into your side.

The scream you let out echoes around the field, and you brace yourself for the harsh impact of hitting the ground. With your eyes squeezed shut you wait for the flash of pain, but peek them open to see Gojo framing your head with one of his hands, his body shielding you from the impact as he lays on top of you.

“How…?” You scream, your chest moving up and down with your fit of giggles, trying to push him off of you, “You’re a beast!” You cry out, moving your head to the side as he laughs along with you, his chest rumbling with the movement.

You shove his face away with the palm of your hands, shoving your wrist into his nose as if that would satiate him.

“I took a bath you behemoth!” You whine, thinking about the dirt and mud that must be staining your skin and dress right now, “Are you so void of any good fragrance in your life that you must hunt me down for it?”

Gojo tsks, shaking his head as he swats your wrist aside.

He’s also slightly out of breath, most likely because he ran across and entire field from another entranceway that you weren’t aware of to catch you off guard, and you’re suddenly very aware of just how close to two of you are together.

His hand is still cradling your head, the other one holding your hips. Truthfully he doesn’t even smell bad, which is frustrating that it’s just another one of his many talents.

He judges your jaw up with his nose, and you helplessly comply, your heart hammering wildly as he leans in closer to the skin of your neck, taking in a whiff as he looks back up to you, his eyes gleaming.

Gojo’s hand on your hip moves up slightly to hold your waist, not hard, but to stop you from squirming around.

“It smells different here,” he nudges your neck with his nose again, and your breathing hitches, “Smells sweeter.”

You swallow thickly, blinking slowly as you crane your neck slightly upwards to give him more room. It’s like your body is moving on its own, and you’re not to sure how you know what to do, but you just do.

“That’s not possible,” you try to argue, trying your best to keep your voice from wavering, “You just lack the nose for good oils.”

Gojo laughs lowly, shaking his head at your antics as he braces his knees on either side of your thighs, caging you in.

“I have a very keen sense of smell,” he boasts and you snort, looking away as he pinches your hip to which you yelp.

His hand moves away from your head and to your shoulder, to where your nightgown had slightly slipped off and runs a thumb down a patch of your skin where it was slightly raised, a faint scar on your collarbone.

“Where’d you get this?” His voice is slightly hushed, and you look down from your chin to where he is talking about.

“Hm?” You look around, see that he’s pointing to the tiniest little scar, and chuckle slightly, “Oh, that?” Your eyes squint as you try to remember, “I tried to climb up a tree once when I was little and fell.” Gojo huffs out a little laugh, his eyes still focused on your skin as you chew on the inside of your cheek.

“It probably looks far worse compared to anything you have,” you say sarcastically, “The family physician kept saying I wasn’t going to make it through the night.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes at your antics as he raises himself, moving away from you as he sits back down on the grass. You miss his warmth, the way his heat radiated onto you like a furnace.

“I don’t know how you keep surviving between your inability to consume fish and your near-death occurrences,” Gojo’s voice holds a teasing tone and you smile, moving up so that you’re facing him.

You rest your weight back on your hands, kicking your legs out in front of you as your skirt flows around the grass. A while ago you would’ve felt improper sitting like this in front of anyone, but you don’t seem to care all that much when it’s Gojo.

“I showed you my battle would,” you say, putting one leg on top of the other, “What’s your worst one?” You ask, tilting your head to the side in questioning.

Gojo purses his lip, thinking.

You imagine that he’d tell you or probably motion to where it was, but a second later you watch, shocked, as he tugs his tunic upwards, your face heating as he rises it slightly so that you can see a part of his stomach.

You hate how utterly built he is.

His skin is pulled taught over the smooth stomach of his abs, his chest huge with pure muscle, his arms, bulging through the sleeves. It’s something you thought you’d get used to, something you told yourself to stop ogling at, but never could.

But you shift your focus to a large scar that runs across his chest, from the bottom of his hip under his arm. It still looks relatively new, and the scar itself still pink. You could see the way it was jagged, not one smooth line, and gods, fuck, why do you want to touch it?

“Well,” you try to think of something witty to say, seeing the way he’s looking at you as if waiting for it, “Clearly not as bad as mine, but it comes in as a close second.”

He throws his head back as he laughs, his muscles contracting as he does so. You feel flushed, not able to look away from the scar, knowing that you were merely compensating for not knowing what to say.

“I know,” he says eventually with a shrug, looking down as he surveys the scar, “It’s not as bad as it could’ve been.”

You pout slightly, thinking.

“Does it hurt?”

He looks up at you, at the way you can’t take your eyes away from it, and shakes his head.

“Not anymore,” he sits up a little straighter, closer to you as you watch him move, “Sometimes I can feel it sting, but it’s barely noticeable.”

You beg to differ.

The two of you don’t say anything and a part of you has decided that silence is bad for you. Because before you can really think about what you’re doing, you push yourself upwards, leaning in closer to him as you try to get a better look at it.

He doesn’t say anything, but if only you could see the way he could barely use his lungs to breath right now you’d make some sly remark about how the best warrior of the North was growing shy from just a look.

But suddenly you’re not looking anymore as you shuffle in a little closer, your fingers reaching upwards to touch the skin.

You can hear the wind move around you, the grass rustiling as your fingers run across the scar. His abs flex at the coldness of your hand, but he doesn’t tell you to stop. You’re studying it intently, wondering what sort of weapon could’ve caused this.

Gojo’s size dwarfs over yours, but you don’t seem to mind. Your lips as slightly pursed as you take it in.

“Did you fight a bear?” You finally ask, peeking up to look at him.

You’re startled by the way the flush on his cheeks has grown even more red, or the way you can’t see the blues in his eyes anymore. Has he always looked like that?

Gojo shakes his head, taking in a shaky breath, looking at the top of your head as you go back to looking at the scar.

“Nearly,” he tries to joke, but his voice is weak, laced with need, “But I doubt a bear would even want to be compared to the man who gave me the scar.”

You look up, your brow quirked in curiosity.

“Who?” You ask, shocked at how quiet your voice came out.

Gojo smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. His tongue clicks against his teeth, his hand rising up to grab yours, pulling it away from his chest. He can’t bear to have you touching him like that anymore, not trusting himself to restrain the pure desire that bubbling inside his veins.

“Naoya,” he says hushed, watching as your lips part and eyes widen.

There’s a beat of silence, a moment when you think you can hear your heart beating in the same rhythm his is.

Your hand curls into itself, shock taking over your features as your eyes drop to his scar and then back up to him. You find yourself wanting to say everything and anything, but can’t somehow find the words that you’re looking for. Gojo beats you to it, thankfully.

“I’ve been having this recurring dream ever since I fought him of that same moment over and over again when he cut me open. But it’s changed, recently,” He sits up straighter, so close to you that your chests are almost touching, “And I keep seeing him marrying you, what would’ve happened if you had said yes.”

“And gods, fuck,” he ducks his head down, raking an agitated hand through his hair, making it even more messy, “I…” He chokes on his breath, looking back at you, and suddenly you see the glossiness in his eyes, the way that tears brim his waterline.

And suddenly you see the Gojo Satoru, the Lord in the North, the most powerful man alive, cry.

“I keep reprimanding Naoya in my head about how awful he is, about how I’d kill nearly every person alive if he ever touched you, b-but I was just as awful. I think about the first time I saw you, about the first weeks you were here. I think about how you must’ve felt, how alone you were. Every day…” he wipes messily at his cheeks, his lips wobbling, “Every day I wake up and think of you. I think about your face, your smile, your eyes, your lips, the way your nose scrunches, that line between your brows when you're confused, and every night I go to sleep hoping that this was all an awful dream and I haven’t ruined your life, but then I wake up, and it starts all over again.”

“I know I’m a selfish man,” Gojo says with a wet chuckle, his cheeks wet with tears, “I know I shouldn’t, but I want you to myself, I want you forever. I want to be your friend, I want to be the person you sleep next to, the person you go to when you want to talk about your little stories. I want to hear your jokes and I want to see you laugh. I want to hold your hand, I want to put that ring on your finger every morning, and I want to propose to you each night.”

He shakes his head, swallowing his cries down, the moon lighting the tear tracks that start from his eyes and end at his chin.

“But I know you don’t want that. You told me that you wanted a friend, but…” he shrugged, his smile sad, aching, longing, “I think along the way of being your friend I realized I wanted to be your husband too.”

“I understand if you want to leave. I’ll tell my parents the truth, they’ll understand. I have a house ready for you near the sea, one away from your family, where you can start over.”

The wind rustles the hills, and you look at the field, watch the way it moves in tandem with the life around it.

You can feel the tears forming in your eyes, and know that even if you blink them away it’ll do nothing to actually hide them. There’s a burning feeling in your chest, one that you’ve never felt before, one that rings with Gojo’s words.

You run your fingers through the grass, looking up at him with a certain fire in your eyes.

“What if I don’t want that?”

He blinks slowly.

“I,” Gojo sniffs, nodding profusely, hoping you don’t see the way he crumbles, “I understand, I promise I do. The house is a couple days-”

“No,” you cut him off firmly, wiping your palms furisuly across your cheeks, to rid them of the pesky tears, shaking your head, “What if I don’t want that?” You move up to him, reaching your hand down his tunic, your fingers moving against is chest as you dig out the gold chain that’s wrapped around his neck.

The one that holds his ring, the one he told you about one night that keeps it safe whenever he’s training.

“What if I want this?” Your voice is cracking, and you tug the chain tighter.

“What if I want all those things? What if I want you to love me?” The ring shines in the moonlight, mirroring her pair thats wrapped around your finger, “I want to be your friend,” you stress, your brows strewn together as tears overflow from your waterline, “And I want to know what things you like. I want to walk with you all around the earth and walk back home again. I want to sleep next to you. I want to make you laugh, and I want you to make me smile. I want you to be my husband so that I can be your wife,” you cry out, your chest heaving up and down as he wraps his arms around your back, pulling you into his lap as he tries to quickly wipe your tears away.

“I want you too, Satoru,” you whisper, broken with your wet sniffles, a wet laugh escaping your lips when you see him crack at the way you said his name with so much care, your thumbs gliding across his cheeks.

You slide closer into him, your legs splitting across his huge thighs as he hugs you tenderly to him, his head resting on your chest so that he can hear your heartbeat, make sure that this wasn’t just another dream.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmurs against your bosom, looking up at you with glistening eyes.

“Then fight for me,” you whisper, your hands on either side of his face, “Give me all those things. Give me more,” you smile when his arms wrap around your waist a little tighter, his hands holding you up, “And I’ll do the same.”

He nods, holding your hand that was still holding onto his ring to his chest, one hand moving to your back, and in the mess of tears and broken laughs the two of you seem to move together, meeting each other in the middle as your lips find each other in the dark shadows of night.

You gasp when his lips capture yours, and he moves towards the sound, wanting to hold it, keep it forever.

Gojo moves slowly, knowing that this is your first time, and cups your jaw, helping you move along with him as you lips slot and lock against each other. It’s messy and with no order, your chin staining with sweat as you moan against him, feeling delirious without the touch of him.

You know this isn’t the easiest position for him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He groans against you, his eyes squeezing shut, trying to memorize your taste in case the world ended tomorrow and this was his last meal.

“Is this-” You cut him off when you swoop in again, his laughter cut short by your needienss, the way you paw at his chest, your hands winding up to his hair as you tug harshly on the soft strands.

He moans at this, at the way you grind mindlessly on his thigh, your need for each other bleeding out into the open.

“I love you,” he murmurs against you, kissing down your chin and then back up to you, his tongue swiping against your lips, savroing your whine, “I love you so much,” he says to everybody, hoping even those on mountains oceans away could hear, “I love you, my wife,” and you giggle, eyes bright when you hear those words.

“Say it again,” you ask, your nails drawing little shapes on his nape, and you see him break into a smile.

“My wife,” he repeats with a peck to your cheek, “My beautiful wife,” he kisses the tip of your nose, smiling at the way it scrunhed up slightly, just the way he adored, “My wife,” he kisses your jaw, “My wife,” your giggling nonstop and he hopes to bottle up the sound and hear it on his deathbed.

His hands travel back down to your hips, adusjsting you slightly so that you wouldn’t feelt he embarrassing hardening of his dick just from kissing you, and moves his lips down to your neck, hearing the way there’s a hitch in your laughter.

“Why’d you stop?” he nudges his nose at that spot pf your neck that still smells like lavender, his favroite scent in the world, “Hm?” Gojo hums against that spot, licking a wet stripe up it, sucking at the skin, feeling the way you arch into his chest.

“Y-your reeking s-scent infiltrated my nose,” you murmur, biting on your lip as he pinches your waist.

“Yeah?” Gojo continued to tease you, sliding the sleeve of your dress down, giving you more access to the skin of your collarbone, “Want me to stop?”

“No!” You cry, totally against your better judgement, moaning when he sucks another mark into the skin, biting it, and then presses a soft kiss to it as an apology, “Please, please, don’t stop.”

He chuckles darkly, shifting you around so that you are lying back down on the ground, his body framing yours as he continues tugging down your dress, going slow in case you ever wanted him to stop.

His fingers are quick at untying the string that holds you bodice together, unravelingit all until it falls off and he’s greeted to the sight of your heaving chest, the way your naked breasts rise and fall.

Gojo blinks for a moment, forgetting how to move.

“W-what?” You ask, a little self-conscience as he continues to stare at your chest, “Do they look wonky?” You move your hands to cover up but a deep gutteral growl escapes his lips, pinning your hands back.

“Beautiful,” he bites out, moving his head down, pressing a wet kiss in between the valley of your breasts, “You look like a fuckin’ statue,” he says, “You’re s-so beautiful.” Gojo repeats, and you can’t protest with the way he praises you, nor the way his lips hover over a nipple, finally leaning in fully as he sucks on it.

“F-fuck!” You cry out at the sensation, your fingers lost in his hair as you keep him there, back arching off the ground, “That, that feels…good,” you can’t speak, not with the way his tongue slides across your nipple, pressing little kisses around you areola.

His other hand goes to your other one, making sure she’s not feeling lonely, his thumb flicking over your sensitive nipples as you whine even louder.

Gojo switches and you feel your breath shudder in an embarrassing whimper, your eeys squeezing shut when he bites at you, wanting to mark you up for those wretched gods to see and feel humanly jealous over.

“So soft,” he murmurs against your skin, almost in awe, “feels like silk.”

You would’ve had a witty joke about this, you know you did, but you can’t fathom to think about anything other than the way his lips feel on your tits, the way he seems like he’d die had he not been here sooner.

But he then raises his head, and you whine in protest. Gojo almost break at the way you’re looking up at him, the way yor lips tremble from sheer desire.

“Want more?” He presses, his hands, warmer than the fire that’s burning in your belly, trailing down, down to where your dress was slightly parting, “Here?”

“Y-yes, fuck,” you moan, parting your legs to make room for him, not knowing what this feeling was but knowing that he was the only one who could soothe it, “Need it so bad Sa-satoru,”

His eyes roll back, swallowing his primal groan at the way you plead for him, and nods, pressing a kiss against your stomach before his hitches the fabric upwards, sliding down your body so that his face is closer to that heat.

You know you should feel more shame, but you feel like you’re going to die if your husband doesn’t do something soon.

Gojo’s hand travels up your calf, trailing up your thigh, and suddenly stops.

You go to beg, plead, for him, but cut yourself off when his lips find your inner thighs, pressign wet and messy kisses to them, getting dangerously close to where you felt like you were leaking.

“You’re divine,” he whispers against your skin, hands wrapping around your thighs as he pulls them apart, “Fuckin’ divine.”

His lips suddenly find there, you glistening cunt, and you mewl out for him.

“Satoru,” your chest is heaving like you can’t find any air, “T-there, please, there,” and fuck the way you’re begging him is so sweet that he can’t find it in himself to tease you.

His fingers seperate your wet lips, groaning when he sees just how much you’re dripping, and licks a tentative stripe upwards, your surprised gasp at how good it felt going straight to his cock.

Gojo carefully slides a finger through your tight walls, feeling the way you tighten around that, and lets his lips travel to your clit, pressing small kisses to it before he begins to suck. You clench around him, and your toes curl at the way he begins to pump it in and out, your essence soaking his skin.

“So wet sweetheart,” he groans swapping his finger for his thumb at your clit, his tongue diving into your walls as he nearly cums from your saccharine taste alone, “S-shit, fuck, you taste like fucking heaven.”

Your thighs tighten arund his head, but he craves the feeling, his tongue eating you out at such a fast pace that you begin to wonder if you need this more or him.

“O-oh gods,” your grips his head tightly, can’t find the sympathy in yourself to feel bad, “‘Toru, oh, oh my, don’t stop!

That coil in your stomach grows more taunt with each second.

He alternates, adding in another thick finger, feeling the way you try to stretch for him. He glides in and out of you with ease, but he wonders what you’d look like on his thick cock, how you’d preen as he split you open with his girth.

“Sweet,” he moans against you, his voice vibrating against your pulsing walls, “You’re so fuckin’ sweet.”

You nod at something, whatever he just said, not fulling understanding anything around you as he continue to stimulate your clit, sucking on it, his teeth gliding across it with a little bite, and you moan out even louder.

“I…” you can’t think, can’t breathe, “F-fcuk, ‘Toru, something, something’s happening,” you don’t know what this feeling is, this electric, all-consuming feeling that’s zapping through your body, making it numb yet aware of everything at the same time.

“I know, I know,” Gojo praised you, one of his hands holding your stomach down, the added pressure making you whine, “You’re doing so good for me, you’re there, come on come for me,” his hand travels up your body, finding yours as he weaves your fingers together.

“Shit, shit,” you mewl, “I’m coming, fuck, c-coming!” You cry out, your back arching off of the ground as your legs grow slack around his shoulders, your walls pulsing around him as that string tightens for the final time and then finally breaks.

You can see white as your eyes rolls back into your head, squeezing his hand as tightly as you can, your yes dotting with tears. Your climax was all consuming, making you gush around his fingers and tongue, seeming to be never-ending, your body shaking in his hold.

Gojo presses one final kiss to your cunt, licking off your release from his fingers, groaning at the taste, and lets you catch your breath.

When you’re finally able to crack your eyes open, you peek them over to Gojo, seeing the way he tilts his head back, your cum still glistening on his chin and cheek, and whine out in embarrassment.

“What?” He asks, eyes teasing when you go to hide your face in your hands.

“I can’t,” your words are muffled, “I can’t believe I just…”

Gojo kisses your forehead, wiping some of the tears from your eyes away as he kisses your brow bone.

“How do you feel?” He asks, his eyes scanning over your body, glistening with sweat, and you take in a gulp of air.

“Good,” you say finally with a soft smile, “Really good.”

You look from his little grin, one that you peck at, your thumb rubbing up and down his jaw, and then look down, to the obvious bulge that’s hiding behind his training trousers.

You’ve never seen a cock before but fuck he’s massive.

“What…” you trail off, sitting up slightly, and he helps balance you, “What about you?” you paw at his stomach, right before it leads down, and he lets out a shuddered whine.

“As much as I-” he bites his tongue, feeling like he’s going to cum if you continue to look at him like that, “As much as I want to…not here,” he looks around at the field, shaking his head as a definite no, “Not here.”

You go to protest, but he stops you, biting your fingers gently as you yelp, shoving his head away with little force as he chuckles.

You let him wrap your dress around you again, tying some of the knots so that it doesn’t open up when you’re standing, and let the silence wash over the two of you calm your beating down heart down.

He plays with the ring around your finger, and you watch as the ring around his neck moves with his little breaths.

“I want to sleep in your bed,” you say, and his blue eyes find yours.

“You’re crazy if you don’t think I’m letting you sleep anywhere else,” he says in a shocked sort of way and you laugh, looking over to the side for a brief moment, and then look back at him.

“Do you really love me?”

Your words as whispered, but it feels like the wind picked them up and scattered them all around the field, around the river, the ancient stones, and right into Gojo’s heart.

“I really love you,” he whispers back, kissing your eyelids, in between your brows, your forehead, the back of your hand, and murmurs the words, “my wife,” to nobody and to everybody at the same time.

You smile, pulling him down by that necklace of his so that you can plant a soft kiss against his lips.

#gojo x reader #gojo x reader smut #gojo x reader angst #gojo x you #gojo x you smut #gojo angst #satoru x reader #satoru x reader angst #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x reader #jjk x reader smut #jjk x reader angst #gojo satoru smut #gojo x reader fluff #satoru x you #jjk smut #arranged!gojo

10K notes · View notes

sugoroo · 11 days ago

Text

#MAKE HIM BEG (FOR THAT P☆SSY!)

ʚɞ summary. how the jjk men look when they beg for it. are they reluctant as they force the words out or pathetic as they whine for it? . . . ft. gojo, geto, toji, choso + sukuna.

warnings. fem!reader, pussydrunk men of course, oral (f receiving), masturbation, penetration (p in v), riding, mating press, sukunas inspired by that one scene in wolf of wall street yupp, 18+ mdni.

SATORU GOJO — BREAKS IN NO TIME!

satoru may spend a short while attempting to defy your orders to beg for what he wants, crossing his arms over his chest and looking away with a petulant pout pushing at his lips.

but with you sitting there oh-so-temptingly next to him on the bed clad in nothing but a fuzzy pink nightgown and looking so painfully beautiful, god is it hard to keep up his childish stubbornness.

just look at it from his point of view for a moment... he's the strongest; he shouldn't have to plead with anyone for anything, right? hell, one could even argue that you should be the one begging him to lay his hands on you.

but if he's being completely honest with himself, he doesn't quite feel like the strongest whenever he's with you — no, it's the opposite, in fact... you make him weak.

weak enough that he's willing to throw caution to the wind and abandon his infamous prideful streak entirely to beg for you.

"please." satoru mumbles under his breath, like a child finally apologizing to their parent after being sent to the corner and thinking about what they've done for the appropriate amount of time.

"what was that, toru?" you hum teasingly, raising an eyebrow and stretching your leg out to poke his thigh with your recently pedicured foot. "i didn't quite hear you."

the white-haired man groans dramatically, peering over at you with his wide, uncovered cerulean eyes. he's needy; you can see it dancing clearly in his irises — but you're not about to let him off the hook that easily.

"can you say it again for me, hmm?" you prompt in a tone just dripping with exaggerated sweetness as you slowly drape your leg across his lap, relishing in the way his pale hands visibly twitch at his sides with the desire to touch it.

your boyfriend looks like he's mere moments away from lighting up a hollow purple as he fixes his stare upon your leg, refusing to look anywhere near your own eyes as he forces out another, more desperate, "please."

"good boy," you praise as a reward, watching with bemusement as satoru tries to cover up the way the two simple words affect him. but you know him too well, and the subtle squirm of his hips against your leg gives him away. "that wasn't so hard, was it?"

satoru grumbles a few retorts under his breath, but quickly loses his train of thought when you lift your leg from his lap, slowly spreading both limbs to expose the sheer panties you'd adorned especially for tonight.

"oh, baby," he groans from low in his throat, pupils dilating at an alarming speed as his tongue darts out to wet his suddenly chapped lips. "look at you..."

"just look?" you repeat cheekily, tilting your head to the side as you observe his completely transfixed reaction — it's almost laughable how easily you can break him down into a pathetic mess. "you don't wanna touch even after you begged so nicely for me?"

"n-no!" satoru shoots back without missing a beat, mop of messy white locks bobbing as he frantically shakes his head from side to side. "i wanna touch, pretty girl. i really wanna touch... can i?"

you barely have time to nod before your boyfriend is between your spread legs, effortlessly pushing them even further apart as he buries his head exactly where he wants it to be — right up against the slick crotch of your translucent underwear.

and he's utterly drunk on everything about your pussy in moments; the tempting scent of your gushing arousal that wafts through the material as he rubs his nose against it, the way the see-through fabric sticks to your skin and allows him a perfect view of your puffy folds.

"so gorgeous." satoru mutters reverently, lovesick eyes flicking up to meet yours as his freakishly long tongue lolls out to lick a slow, thorough stripe up the soiled front of your panties.

you're not sure who moans louder; him or you. all you do know is that it doesn't take long for his eager mouth to be directly over your cunt, ruined underwear tossed somewhere nearby without a second thought.

"y'should... make me work for it... more often, baby," he pants against you between obnoxious slurps and frequent groans of enjoyment at your saccharine flavour. "somehow, it makes this pretty pussy taste even sweeter."

SUGURU GETO — TURNS THE TABLES ON YOU!

suguru has no problem in indulging you if you want to switch things up in the bedroom every now and again. you want him to beg for you? sure, he can do that.

...because he knows that the roles will be reversed soon enough.

so when you pull him away from your gushy cunt by his hair after he's just spent the last few blissful hours down there coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of your writhing body, he's waiting patiently for whatever you want to say.

"if you want to be inside me next... you have to beg for it," you say breathlessly, trailing your fingers from the back of his silky, loose hair down to the nape of his neck and squeezing. "can you do that for me, sugu?"

suguru pretends to consider it for a moment, tilting his head to the side and peering up at you with thoughtful violet eyes. after a few moments, he responds. "hmm... i see no reason why i can't."

your surprise is evident on your face at just how quickly he agreed — when you first decided you wanted to try this, you assumed it would take atleast a little bit of convincing to get him to go along with it.

...but apparently not.

"wow. um... just like that?" you chuckle in a soft puff of startled air, eyebrows raised as you watch him stand up from his knees and rest his large hands over your bare thighs.

"what? did you expect me to put up a fight or something, baby?" suguru purrs gently, leaning down so his face is inches from yours, hot breaths mingling together. "nah. my girl's pretty pussy is worth begging for, don't you think?"

you swallow thickly, his sultry words making a gush of arousal ooze onto the sheets beneath you as your eyes briefly flick down to his lips which are still swollen and shiny with your juices. "i wouldn't have asked you to if i didn't think so."

he releases a low, velvety laugh at this before slowly spreading your legs wider to make room for himself and crawling onto the mattress to settle between them.

suguru reaches down past the waistband of his grey sweatpants to wrap a tanned hand around his neglected cock, giving it a few pumps while his gaze stays fixed upon your glistening wetness.

and he just keeps doing this for a few long moments, making your body instinctively squirm around in need as you observe his ministrations with an air of impatience. "i-isn't this the part where you're meant to do the begging?" you force out, hoping your voice isn't too audibly uneven.

he simply smiles at this — a lilting, amused little smile that makes you feel like he might know something you don't. "i will, sweetheart. just getting myself ready first."

a few minutes pass, yet he still makes no move whatsoever to start pleading with you; and naturally, you're starting to become more and more restless, itching for something, anything to happen.

then suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, suguru pushes both his sweats and boxers down in one fell swoop, instantly drawing your attention to his thick, veiny cock as it slaps against his toned abdomen, reddened tip angry and drooling from all the teasing he's been doing to it.

and you're so fixated on the sight before you that you hardly even notice when he slyly lines himself up with your entrance, rubbing his leaky cockhead around it in slow, infuriating circles.

"w-what are you doing, sugu?" you gasp, brows pinching in a mix of annoyance and pleasure at his deliberately un-coordinated movements; he's working you up on purpose... but why?

"nothing." suguru hums entirely innocently, blinking down at you with an air of nonchalance that doesn't fail to irk you.

for a while, silence falls between you as you both gaze intently at where your bodies are connected — so close to becoming one but not quite there yet.

and then, the somewhat tranquil moment is suddenly snapped into a thousand tiny pieces by the loud, wet slap! of your boyfriend's flushed tip slapping against your cunt.

and it makes you release a pitiful cry, needy hips instinctively bucking up against him in search of more friction. but he abruptly pulls away before your skin can touch again, still sporting that strange smile.

"you want something, pretty girl?" suguru croons in a deceptively sweet tone, reaching down to trail a slender finger down the supple skin of your tummy and relishing the way your hips buck again in response.

"y-yes," you whine pathetically, too desperate to be full of him to even process how this situation has somehow been turned completely on its head in mere minutes. "please, sugu... need you."

"thereee we go... who's the one begging now, hm?" he chuckles loudly, eery smile finally widening into the smug grin he's evidently been holding back this whole time. "see what i did there?"

"...i hate you."

"no you don't, baby."

and he's right; you don't. and when he distracts you by finally, finally beginning to ease himself inside your throbbing heat, you think maybe the tables being turned on you wasn't such a bad thing after all.

TOJI FUSHIGURO — YOU'LL HAVE TO WEAR HIM DOWN!

“—you want me to what?” toji grunts in response, a thick dark eyebrow raised in exasperation as he looks at you like you’d just grown a second head.

“you heard me perfectly fine, toji.” you huff with a small roll of your eyes. of course he isn't going to make this easy for you. he never does.

“you seriously want me to beg to fuck that needy little cunt of yours?” he scoffs loudly, jabbing a finger in the direction of your dripping core as if to prove his point. “i think you should be the one begging me to do that, dollface.”

“that’s what i do every night already,” you deadpan, crossing your arms over your chest and observing the way he simply shrugs in response. “we’re trying something different this time.”

“oh, are we now?” toji drawls mockingly, tilting his head to the side and eyeing you with a bemused half-smile tugging at his scarred lips. “and what makes you so sure i’ll even agree to go along with this, hm?”

“well… because if you don’t, then you get no pussy tonight.” you counter in a decisive hum, closing your legs and sealing yourself away from his view.

“really? that's the best y'got?” he snorts obnoxiously, waving a dismissive hand in your direction and turning his head back to the television screen at the end of the bed as if to showcase how unaffected he is by your threat.

toji may be stubborn as a mule, but so are you; which is a good thing because it means you work well together, but a bad thing (for him) because it means that two can play at this little game he’s started.

so while he pretends his attention is solely fixed on whatever is quietly playing on the tv, you not-so-subtly begin sliding a hand down the length of your body, eyeing him carefully for any signs of a reaction.

you know you’re making progress when he covers up the way a groan threatens to rumble from deep in his throat when he notices your hand finishing its descent and disappearing between your legs by clearing his throat into his fist.

he holds out for quite a while, honesty. it must be taking a herculean effort on his part not to snap when you begin releasing shameless moans and gasps of pleasure right beside him, coupled with the lewd squelching sounds emanating from your cunt.

but toji is just a man, after all — and one that is not used to being denied what he wants, at that. so it's not long at all before he breaks, practically ripping his clothes to shreds in his haste to be inside of you right now.

you stop him before he can line himself up with your entrance by placing a hand on his bare chest, a victorious smile pulling at your lips as you tilt your head to the side. "forgetting something, big man?"

"huh? oh, y'mean a condom? sorry, baby, 'm all out." he mutters while shooting an apologetic grin in your direction, quickly turning his focus back to pushing his gushing tip towards your fluttering hole.

"no, not that," you chuckle in bemusement, giving his chest a light shove to stop his advances yet again. "i'm fairly certain i said no pussy for you unless you beg for it, didn't i?"

toji's grin falls comically fast, replaced by a small scowl of annoyance as he leans back on his haunches. damn it, he'd been foolish to hope you would've forgotten about that already.

"jesus christ, fine... please?" he forces out with about as much enthusiasm as a young child about to go to their first day back at school after a long vacation, the words coated in bitterness as they fall from his tongue.

"alright, i see you don't really want it then, so i'll just see myself out—"

"fuck no, you're not going anywhere, dollface," toji grunts before you can even take a single step towards the door, wrapping his strong arms around your waist and effortlessly pulling you down onto his lap. "i'll even beg all proper for ya, okay? please can i have you, mama?"

"...i suppose." you respond with a small smile, trying to hold back the smugness threatening to bubble up into your tone as you realize that your little plan actually worked.

but as per usual, you end up being the one begging for more once toji starts bouncing your pliant body up and down on his fat, curved cock that just fills you up so good.

...no surprises there.

CHOSO KAMO — BEGS ALREADY (A LOT!)

choso has absolutely no problem being pathetic for you.

he feels that it's a blessing just being able to exist in your mere presence, so it's only fair that if he wants anything more than that then he should ask nicely, right?

he has no idea why anyone wouldn't get down on their knees and beg for the privilege of getting to touch someone as pretty as you, especially when you walk into the bedroom in nothing but one of his oversized shirts.

"baby..." choso mutters quietly, voice already slightly whiny as he watches you perch yourself on the edge of the bed he was lazily sprawled across before your entrance.

"hmm?" you hum, feigning obliviousness, as you peer at him over your shoulder — and oh, is he adorable like this. all pale, blushing cheeks and an involuntary pout pushing at his full lower lip.

"you look so pretty right now," he murmurs quietly but sincerely as his wide chestnut eyes trail over your form with barely concealed reverence dancing in his irises. "...w-well, i mean, you always look pretty. but especially right now." he adds for good measure.

"why thank you," you respond with a soft smile, reaching out to lightly trail your fingertips across the distance of his sharp jawline and relishing in the way his entire body visibly shivers as a result. "is there by any chance something you want, cho?"

choso audibly gulps at the gentle and knowing tone of your voice, letting his eyes flutter closed for a few beats before opening them again. "m-maybe."

"maybe?" you repeat in a light chuckle, raising an eyebrow and grasping his chin between your thumb and forefinger to make sure his gaze stays directly fixed upon you. "i know you can do better than that, baby. c'mon, use your words for me."

his pouting lower lip trembles ever so slightly at your coaxing words, the rapidly growing bulge in his sweatpants twitching violently in a way that borders on painful in response. "want y-you."

"hmm... better, i suppose. but still not good enough." you tut in disappointment, removing your touch from his chin entirely and observing the way he chases after your hand with silent amusement.

slowly crawling across the mattress, you perch yourself upon his lap before the poor boy can even process what's happening, placing your hands over his hipbones to stop his inevitable squirming.

"if you want something, you have to be specific," you drawl in a low, sultry caress of a tone, languidly rolling forward against the not-so-subtle hardness you can feel beneath your ass. "now... tell me, cho, what is that you want?"

choso appears to be mere moments away from bursting into a fit of tears at your teasing movement, his pale hands clenching into white-knuckled fists against the bedsheets as he peers up at you pleadingly through the messy strands of dark hair that have fallen across his forehead.

"i-i want you to... to fuck me," he murmurs timidly, each syllable audibly shaking with embarrassment as it leaves his mouth. no matter how many times the two of have been intimate in the past, he still remains as shy as ever. "please."

"thereee we go," you coo warmly, hands giving his hips a gentle squeeze in reward for his obedience. "didn't even have to ask you to beg, hmm? you did it all on your own like a good boy."

choso merely nods furiously, his desperate facial expression doing all the talking for him as you lift your body up for a moment to tug his sweatpants (which are already decorated with a small pre-cum stain) down.

it's not long before you're settled atop his needy, pulsing cock, unable to resist his repeated adorable whimpers and mewls to feel you around him — and oh, does it feel better when you've teased him just a little beforehand.

he's going feral within seconds, pulling your pliant body down to his face practically suffocate himself with your pillowy tits while he ruts up into like an animal in heat.

as you brace yourself for a bumpy ride, you can't but think that if there's one thing you never have to worry about with choso as your boyfriend, it's him refusing to beg for you.

...but what you do have to worry about is the very real possibility of him bruising your cervix with how deep his relentless thrusts are reaching.

RYOMEN SUKUNA — KINGS DO NOT BEG... RIGHT?

ryomen sukuna is the king of curses. and, coincidentally, last time he checked; kings do not beg.

so when you have the sheer audacity to ask him to plead with you for the mere privilege of getting to touch your mortal cunt, to say he is outraged would be a dire understatement.

“absolutely not.” sukuna grunts firmly, crimson eyes narrowing in annoyance as he waves a dismissive hand in your direction, the action not dissimilar to what he would've to one of his old concubines when he was finished with them.

but you're irritatingly persistent, refusing to let the matter go for the entire duration of the night as if you truly believe there's a chance you can break his ironclad resolve.

"you must be deluded beyond comprehension to think i would ever stoop so low as to—" he begins to grumble, but for some reason, finds the end of his sentence disappearing from his mind when he lays eyes upon what you're currently doing.

there you sit, at the foot of his throne, skirt pushed up to reveal the lack of... well, anything underneath as you shamelessly sprawl your legs apart to give him an unobstructed view of your sweet cunt.

"fuck, woman," sukuna practically growls, the sound guttural and raw as it escapes from deep in his throat. he shifts subtly in his seat, craning his neck downward to get a better look at you. "what on earth do you think you're doing?"

"who, me?" you hum, feigning complete obliviousness as you slowly but surely lift a leg up and press the end of your high heel against the arm of his throne.

"yes, you," he scoffs incredulously, crossing his tattooed arms over his chest and attempting to continue remaining unaffected by your little display. "do you see anyone else in here flashing me their bare pussy?"

you make a show of glancing over both shoulders before turning back and shaking your head with a mock-innocent smile stretching at your lips. "huh. you're right, looks like i'm the only one."

sukuna only responds with an unamused grunt at your childish antics, the sound quickly melting into a rough groan when you lift up your other leg as well, body now entirely open and just ripe for the taking.

he finds himself instinctively reaching out a thick hand before he even realizes what he's doing, only for you to pin it down with the end of your heel without it managing to make contact with your skin.

"ah ah," you hum chidingly, tilting your head to the side and peering up at him through fluttering lashes. "you know what you have to do if you want to touch, ryo."

sukuna scowls fiercely, fully aware that he could effortlessly pull his hand from under your shoe and snap your pretty little ankle in half in one swift movement... but he won't do that, of course. (maybe)

he could also just take what he wants right here, right now, without having to humiliate himself by pleading — but he supposes if he's going to do something so utterly unbecoming of himself like begging for someone, it might as well be for you.

so as soon as the pathetic syllables of the word "please" leave his disgruntled mouth, he doesn't wait a single second to pounce on you, easily folding your legs up to your head so your heels frame either side of your face.

"but don't think this little stunt of yours will go unpunished," sukuna mutters gruffly in your ear as he impatiently tugs his robes open. "next time, i'll make you take both my cocks. then you'll be the one begging me; not for more... no, but for me to stop."

LIKES AND REBLOGS APPRECIATED!

5K notes · View notes

cinnamorollcrybaby · 2 months ago

Text

Career Day

Tags: teeth rotting fluff, crack, jjk men as dads / fem!reader

An: Your child comes home and says tomorrow is career day at their school. They want to bring you and their daddy to school to show off how cool you two are, but.. their dad doesn’t exactly have the most conventional job.

SATORU • SUGURU • TOJI • SUKUNA

SATORU

“My daddy is the strongest!” Your son explains to a room full of his peers. Satoru is proudly beaming next to him. You note how much they look alike. The white hair, the bright blue eyes. Your son looks like he came straight from Satoru and had nothing to do with you.

But your son, Aoi, definitely had your personality.

“Nuh uh. He can’t be the strongest. Superman’s the strongest!” Another kid protested with an unconvinced frown.

“Well, my daddy is like superman!” Aoi retorts, keeping his headstrong personality like his mama. “Actually, he’s even better than superman!”

“He’s not even wearing a suit!” A different child speaks up. You share a nervous glance with Satoru. He’s enjoying this all too much.

“He doesn’t need a suit to be the strongest, dumbass!” Your sweet boy yells, and you promptly cover his mouth. Satoru is laughing his ass off, making the entire situation worse.

Correction, Aoi trying out his dad’s signature hand signal and saying “domain expansion” made the entire situation so much worse.

“You’re grounded, Aoi. You can’t say those things to other people. It’s rude and hurtful.” You say as you and Satoru walk your young boy home. Aoi lets out a small frustrated groan.

“I’m still getting him ice cream.” Satoru interjects with a proud smile. “My boy tried to cast his first domain at just six-years-old. He deserves a sweet treat.” Two wide smiles look up at you, and you realize you’re outnumbered here. Rolling your eyes, you nudge Satoru.

“I want a girl next.”

SUGURU

Mimiko and Nanako begged Suguru to come to their school’s career day. He was of course hesitant to do so, given that Jujutsu sorcery was still a hidden art in Japan. He didn’t exactly know how to explain his career to a bunch of kids.

He had a plan though. He would just tell the children that he was a preacher at a church. It’s not… completely a lie. He was a leader for.. a type of church.

You and Geto walk into the cozy looking classroom and see a load of other parents there. Your husband grimaced at the thought of having to interact with all these… people.

You give Suguru a reassuring squeeze of the hand. “It’ll be okay. Anything for the girls, right?” You whisper into his ear, making him nod. Anything for the girls.

When it’s finally Mimiko and Nanako’s turn to explain what their daddy does for a living, your small family gathers at the front of the classroom. Plenty of small innocent faces and reassuring smiles fill the room.

“Okay girls, tell us what your parents do for a living.” Their teacher prompts with a warm smile.

“My daddy swallows balls for a living!” Nanako says proudly with a beaming smile.

The kids erupted into laughter while their parents gave you two disgusted looks.

To make matters worse, “He also hates filthy mo-“ Mimiko tries to add on, but Geto quickly covers her mouth with his hand.

After explaining what a vivid imagination your twins have, you go on to explain that Geto is a leader at a church, and well, that doesn’t go over too well either.

“Homeschool?” Geto suggests as the four of you walk home.

“Most definitely.” You agree. Mimiko and Nanako are now educated by you at the home, where they can’t out their dad for swallowing balls.

TOJI

“Mama, make papa come to career day.” Your young son, Megumi, demanded. He had a small little pout on his face, and his arms were firmly crossed over his chest. Behind him, Toji stood, shaking his head at his son’s determination.

He often did this: telling you to make Toji do something because you were the only person who could make Toji do anything. After all these years, mans was still wrapped around your finger.

“Baby, Papa’s job is kinda private.” You explain quietly as you pet Megumi’s soft hair.

The small boy’s look of determination shifted to a look of reserve. Even as a young child, he wasn’t great at showing when his feelings were hurt, but you could always tell.

“Gumi.” You say his name softly, bending over to look at the boy’s flat expression.

You were also the only one who could coax Megumi into showing his real emotions.

Tears welled in his eyes, and his bottom lip started quivering. “I don’t wanna be the only one whose parents didn’t come.”

“Oh baby.” You frown as you pull your son into a hug. You glare upwards at Toji, and his eyes widened slightly. He knew what that look meant. “You’re going to career day.” You say to him, leaving no room for argument.

The next day,

“Okay Mr. Fushiguro, what do you do for a living?” The teacher asks Toji as he’s sat next to Megumi. Your son is actually smiling, enjoying the fact that Toji actually came to career day.

“People pay me a large sum of money, and I take care of someone for them.” Toji explains vaguely.

“Oh! Like a doctor?” One of the kids asked with an impressed smile.

“Sure, like a doctor.” Your husband lies, knowing that he does quite the opposite of what a doctor does.

SUKUNA

The look on the kids faces as your tall, muscular, tatted husband walked into the classroom was hilarious. Most of them were completely mortified, giving Sukuna frightened stares.

Your husband was completely unfazed. If anything, he was soaking in the kids’ fear. He sat at the front of the room with a look of arrogance.

Your nephew, Yuji, sat between you two. No, he was technically not your kid, but he didn’t have anyone else to bring to career day. So, Unc Sukuna and Auntie Yn were to the rescue.

“And.. what do you do for work, sir?” The teacher asked in almost a judgmental tone as she eyed Sukuna. You couldn’t tell if she despised him or wanted to fuck him.

“I don’t work. I live off tithe.” Sukuna bluntly answered with a shrug. His lopsided smile never left his face.

“What’s a tithe?” A small child asked quietly.

“It means people pay me out of fear of that I’ll harm them if they don’t.” Your husband gives a child a sharp stare with a challenging smile. He wanted the kids to keep asking questions. The thought of scaring multiple children all at once fueled him.

“Like… beat them up?” Another child asked.

“Like eating their snot-nosed children.” Sukuna answered with a toothy grin. The children all shrieked and cried in terror. Hell, even their parents looked frightened.

“Ryomen.” You chide as you look over towards your husband. He was laughing maniacally, even slapping his knee like the old man he was.

Yuji never invited you two to another career day.

4K notes · View notes

fairy-angel222 · 9 months ago

Text

𝐗 𝐅𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒 𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩

—jjk men and their favorite x rated videos of you.. nsfw twitter [p⚝rn]

ft. gojo, geto, toji, nanami, sukuna, choso

𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎

Gojo making you ride him

Gojo’s obsessed with how good you taste

Gojo breeding you

Gojo fucking you from the back

Gojo taking you for a ride in his car

Your step bro Gojo got distracted while teaching you to play the piano

Gojo fucking you in an elevator

The reason Gojo invested in a self driving car

Gojo can’t stop messily breeding you full

Gojo eating you out in a new position

Fucking your son’s best friend Gojo

Gojo overstimulating you with his fingers

Gojo waking you up on the weekend

𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎

Geto spanking you on camera

Geto loves your ass

Geto giving you backshots

Geto fucking you in his car before he brings you home to your parents

Your fuck buddy Geto is careful to not cum in you

Older bf Geto fingering you

Geto taking his anger out on you

Geto making you suck him off

How older bf Geto eats you out

Geto recording him fingering you in the mirror

𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈

Dilf! Nanami’s cock is too big to fit, so you improvise

Nanami fucking you

Riding Nanami’s face

Fucking professor Nanami

Nanami eating you out

Nanami playing with his baby girl’s pussy

Nanami breeding your cunny full

Nanami making you squirt through your panties

Taking Nanami’s thick cock

Your boss Nanami filling you, his work slut up

Nanami’s big cock bulging in your belly

𝐓𝐎𝐉𝐈

Toji fingering you in the store

Toji making you get a back tattoo for when he fucks you from behind

Toji’s way of stopping you from squirming

Fucking your best friend’s dad Toji

Dilf! Toji fucking you in the ass so your boyfriend doesn’t notice

Your dad’s best friend touching you

Car sex with older bf Toji

A compilation of all the videos Toji’s recorded fucking you

Toji overstimulating you with a vibrator

Toji fucking you in handcuffs

Bouncing on professor Toji’s cock

𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀

Sukuna putting a leash round your neck

Sukuna fucking you, his best friend’s sister

A walk with your boyfriend Sukuna turns into him cumming on your face

Sukuna making you watch porn and telling you to recreate it

Sukuna fucking you slow

Riding dad’s best friend Sukuna

Sukuna fucking and breeding you hard

Sukuna cumming from fucking your panties

𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐎

Giving Choso a handjob

Choso licking your clit after cumming in you

Choso eating you out

Choso asking his step sis to pull down her panties for him

Giving Choso a thigh job

Choso cumming from rubbing his clothed dick on your clothed ass

Choso making both you and him cum from just a vibrator

Choso making you squirt whiles he breeds you

Choso sucking on your tits as you ride him

#jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen smut #gojo smut #gojo satoru smut #geto smut #geto suguru smut #choso smut #choso kamo smut #sukuna #sukuna smut #toji smut #nanami kento smut #nanami smut #toji fushiguro smut #gojo satoru

17K notes · View notes

cckaisen · 5 months ago

Text

୨ৎ˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 part of the family !

req ! the jjk men casually callin’ your parents mom and dad <3

ಇ. summary. fem!reader, crack, fluff bc ohmigod, i love these boys.

ಇ. including. gojo, nanami, hakari, yuji, megumi, yuta, toge, choso.

likes n reblogs r appreciated !! 🩷

5K notes · View notes

tender-rosiey · 2 months ago

Note

Can u do a drabble with jjk men where their child gets into a physical fight?

"MY KID IS NOT GUILTY, YOUR HONOR!"

— when your kid with gojo, sukuna, nanami, geto, and toji gets into a fight (f!reader)

GOJO SATORU:

your husband happily swings your hands together, as you walk to the principal’s office. meanwhile, you’re worried sick about s/n and what happened to him.

satoru rubs your hand reassuringly before slamming the door open and yelling, “did you win?!”

your eyes widen, but before you interject, s/n replies back enthusiastically, “yes, I did!”

you hurry to your son, kneeling in front of him to check him thoroughly.

you let out a sigh of relief when you see that he isn’t hurt in any way. sensing your distress, he hugs you. “I missed you, mama,” he says, snuggling into your neck.

“me too,” you smile and almost get lost in the moment, but then you hear a camera shutter. you look back and see your husband, holding a camera.

“oops, don’t mind me, hun.”

the dad of the other boy—who you didn’t notice was even there—stands up, livid, “can you take this a bit more seriously?! my son is injured!”

you’re about to reply yourself, but then satoru beats you to it. he stands right in front of the man and looks down at him, “surely, you’re not yelling at my wife, right?”

the man stumbles back into his chair, and satoru stares him down, making him sink even further into the chair.

the mother then speaks to you, “what your son did is unacceptable! look at how my baby is right now!”

looking at the other boy, you decide that the mother has every right to be mad. his nose is bleed profusely. you’re pretty sure it’s broken.

you look at your son and quirk an eyebrow, “s/n? what happened?”

“I was showing my friends the picture I got of you, and he said you were ugly! he can’t do that!”

your husband turns back and gasps, “he did what?!”

as if the dad himself is the one that is getting scolded, his eyes get teary.

meanwhile, you see the mother whispering to the boy, and he nods, ashamed. she looks back at you and says, “however, what your son did is not acceptable.”

“I know that the reaction was a bit much, but what your son did is also unacceptable,” you answer with your son nodding behind you.

“well—can you not be so close to my husband?” she snaps at satoru, whose cursed energy is increasing.

“you and your husband need to get taught a lesson if you raise a kid that’s so stupid he thinks my beautiful, divinie, and drop dead gorgeous wife is ugly,” he states, and the lady finds herself shrinking back beside her husband.

the little boy also scrambles into his parents’ embrace.

you place your hand on satoru’s forearm, and he immediately relaxes.

you smile and press a kiss to his cheek then pat your son’s back before instructing him softly, “you have to apologize for hurting him so much, though, s/n, okay?”

your son, ever the obedient sweetheart when it comes to you, looks at the boy, “I am sorry, but you should be sorry too!”

the other boy nods, crying, “I am sorry!”

your son nods, satisfied with the answer. your husband then picks s/n up and spins him around as he sings his praises, “I am so proud of you for defending mama like that! so so proud!”

the boy grins happily and hugs his dad. satoru then raises his finger, “but you gotta know that people are weak, so we can only do this to them all the time.”

your son nods eagerly, before wiggling to the ground. he runs to you, excited to tell you about his day. you grin and listen to him happily, ignoring the crying family on the other side.

your husband kisses the top of your head before turning to the principal with a smirk, “so, principal, is there anything you would like to say?”

“I am gonna piss myself.”

RYOMEN SUKUNA:

you dragged sukuna to the principal’s office, after you got a call of a major incident happening involving him. your husband insisted on dismissing it, but you just had a feeling that something is seriously wrong.

you both enter the office, eyes immediately falling on your son who is sitting unbothered on the chair. meanwhile, the principal is resting his elbows on the desk and striking a pose that could only be described as trouble.

when s/n sees you two, his eyes light up, and he runs to give you—and only you—a hug. sukuna scowls, “what about me?”

“you said you don’t like my hugs,” your son huffs, averting his eyes away. sukuna stares at him for a second, before picking him up by the scruff and placing him in his arms.

the boy looks at his dad, shocked, before snuggling into his embrace.

your husband leans his head just a bit on s/n’s head. you both then direct your attention to the waiting principal.

the principal taps his fingers together, but sukuna grumbles, “are you not gonna talk?”

you stifle a giggle—which sukuna notices and you notice the slight smirk now present on his face. the principal looks up at the three of you then speaks slowly, “well, you see…”

he looks up, “your son set my car on fire.”

a few beats pass.

then your husband barks out a laugh, one so hearty that it catches everyone but you off-guard.

the principal looks incredously at sukuna. your son tilts his head in confusion, before sukuna ruffles his hair, “how did you even do that? seriously, that’s my son for you!”

the boy thrives off his dad’s praise, and they get lost in their world, as your son details how he orchestrated everything.

the principal frowns, vexed. he clears his throat to speak up, “sir, I think you might have misheard. I am saying your son—”

“did I ask you to repeat yourself?”

the tone leaves no room for discussion, and it also sends shivers down the principal’s spine. your little boy snickers, and you side-eye him, effectively shutting him up.

the principal shakes his head slowly, then he looks at you for help.

truthfully, the man has every right to be both terrified and offended cause what the hell kinda is able to set a car on fire and act so nonchalant about it? it’s the kinda kid with a dad who backs him up for it.

however, the man assumes that voice of reason is you.

you want to help, but you’re just too tired. so, you smile, “I understand that what happened is harsh, sir,” he lights up, then you continue, “but surely, you can get a new one, right?”

the man pauses and looks at you with wide eyes, before spluttering, “wha—ma’am, you can’t be serious—"

“surely, you. can. get. a. new. one. right?” you glare.

the man nods frantically.

sukuna smirks pridefully, and he wraps an arm around you, pulling you close. he leans his face near your ear and whispers, “my kinda woman.”

you smile and wrap your arm around his waist and squeeze his hip in return. you both exchange affectionate bedroom looks, forgetting about the frightened principal.

meanwhile, s/n looks at you guys, wrorried, and murmurs, “mom, you’re scarier than dad.”

despite what he says, s/n jumps into your arms and nuzzles against your cheek. your husband rolls his eyes with no real annoyance behind them.

with all the courage left in him, the principal smiles nervously and stutters, “you—you can leave now; I sincerely and deeply apologize for the hold up.”

nobody moves an inch.

“…please leave.”

NANAMI KENTO:

you, your husband, and your daughter are now seated in the principal’s office.

you are waiting for the other kid and her parents to come in as well. you’re tapping your feet, restlessly, but kento lays his hand on your knee and rubs it gently.

he nods at you, and you smile.

you know your daughter would never fight unprovoked. said daughter gets off her chair and climbs into your lap. she hugs you tightly, and you instantly start petting her hair.

she lets a small sigh, but then the principal enters the office with the other parents in toe. you see your husband’s eyes narrow, before he leans close to d/n and asks gently, “isn’t that the girl you said was bullying your friend?”

your daughter nods intensely and whispers back, “she was about to hit her today, and you told me not to let people bully others! that’s why I hit her.”

you pat her head, and she grins. kento hums then nods, “I get that, but couldn’t you get a teacher, sweetheart?”

“the teacher would’ve taken too long!” your daughter huffs, and she is right. but, there still is a lesson that she needs to understand.

the principal clears his throat and sits in his chair. “well mr. and mrs. nanami, your daughter has inflicted pain on a friend of hers—”

“bullies aren’t my friends!”

good saying, but this probably isn’t the time. you pat her back, and she instantly understands what you mean, so she—begrudgingly—calms down.

the principal continues, “as I was saying, she hit her classmate, and as you can see, it left a bruise. such violent acts are prohibited in this respected establishment.”

“shouldn’t bullying be prohibited as well?” you ask, and the man splutters.

“that doesn’t happen—”

“i can assure you that my wife is speaking the truth,” kento backs you up, “if you would like, we can check the cameras or what the teachers say regarding the environment you’re fostering.”

your daughter’s head starts spinning from the big words.

your husband places a hand on the top of her head before resuming, “while I acknowledge that my daughter shouldn’t have been physical in defending her friend, you ought to acknowledge that what the other girl did was also unacceptable.”

“and since you want to solve the root of the problem, shouldn’t you punish the one that did the bullying and warranted my daughter to act in defense?” you press on, and the principal gulps.

the father of the girl stands up, “my princess would do no such thing—”

“your record isn’t that pretty either, so I suggest you sit down,” you say with a smile, and it does the trick. the man immediately sticks to his wife—who has said nothing, and you assume it’s because she knew what her daughter did.

everybody keeps staring at each other for a while, with your daughter having a staring contest with the other girl.

“we will deal with our daughter accordingly,” kento speaks up as he stands up, straightening his suit, “but we expect that the girl is also held accountable for her shameful actions. thank you.”

you and d/n get up, and the three of you exit the office—like icons. kento holds your hand and d/n’s, and you giggle, “did you see how they looked?”

“should you be encouraging d/n about laughing at others?” your husband asks with a small quirk of his eyebrow. you nod confidently.

“if they’re rude then yes!”

he shakes his head helplessly with a smile. then your daughter looks up to kento as you are walking and says excitedly, “dad, I won!”

your husband looks down at her then smiles gently, nodding as he gives her a thumbs up. you raise your eyebrows and gasp lowly, “hypocrisy?”

“hmm, I don’t know.”

GETO SUGURU:

your daughters hang off their dad’s back as you guys head to the principal’s office. they squeal and giggle, and suguru has an ever-permanent smile.

he is holding onto your hand gently and says, “don’t worry; I doubt that the girls actually caused damage.”

“I know, but what I am curious about is why they would get into something,” you reply, pensive, “I know my daughters very well,” you smile, and the girls grin.

they start chanting your name, clapping, and saying I love you a million times.

you open the door slowly and are met with the principal standing in front of his desk and a girl standing on top of it. your eyebrows furrow in confusion, as you all enter.

your husband wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close. he tilts his head, “so, what’s wrong?”

the man drums his fingers on the desk, leaning back, “your daughters have ganged up on my daughter.”

the both of you take a moment to examine the girl from afar. there seems nothing wrong with her: no bruise, no blood, no nothing.

you exchange looks, and you take the turn to speak up, “your daughter looks okay to me.”

the man huffs and crosses his arms, “she was hurt emotionally! severely too!”

the girl nods strongly and pouts. her dad gasps and hugs her. he then starts coddling her before asking her, “what did they say to you, sugarplum?”

“they said that I looked like a mole rat, daddy!” she replies, hand on her chest as she ‘falls’ to her knees, “and—and that’s only one of the many bad things they said!”

the man gasps yet again and starts comforting her.

you and your husband let out a snort, barely containing your laughter. the girls puff their chest in confidence. you and suguru look at each other with a poorly hidden grin, and you get caught.

the man fumes, “you’re laughing at my dear sweet princess sugar?!”

“no, we are laughing at the insult,” you reply.

“it’s quite creative,” suguru chuckles before turning to the girls who have long let go of him. he kneels down and asks them, “why did you guys do that?”

“she pulled my hair!” one of the twins spoke.

the other chimes in, “and she made fun of me.”

“oh.”

just from that word alone, you can tell which path your husband is gonna take in continuing this conversation. you have a half a mind to make him summon rainbow dragon to take you home.

you just wanted to know the reason, and suguru is probably never going to leave it at that. forget how ‘calm’ he usually is, his family should never be insulted.

“…see, this why you’re all a bunch of monkeys.”

“monkeys!!” the twins scream in unison.

this time both the principal and the daughter gasp incredulously. your secretly a diva of a husband carries your girls then holds your hand before exiting the office.

he walks in silence, and you quirk an eyebrow, “so, what are you going to do, mister ‘filthy monkeys’?”

“I have a feeling that you’re making fun of me, honey.”

“and that feeling would be right.”

the girls settle on his shoulders, freeing his arms, and he takes the chance to tickle you. you squeal, “suguru, stop! I am serious! not in public!”

“but you’re being mean, sweetheart,” he mock pouts, “such bad things you’re saying.”

your roll your eyes, and you guys continue on your merry way back home.

that event passed by like a breeze, but for some reason, the school has been appointed a new principal because the last one went missing.

I wonder why.

FUSHIGURO TOJI:

“relax, ma,” your husband says as he rubs your shoulder in hopes of comforting you, “the kid is surely fine; he is our son after all.”

“I know, toji! but what if he did get hurt?” you fret then scowl, “I swear to god, if they harm a single hair on megumi’s head, I will make them wish they were never born!”

toji smirks lightly and ruffles your hair, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, before opening the door. he sees megumi sat, arms crossed and frowning.

involuntary, toji lets out a sigh of relief, and you waste no time in going to your son and checking on him, bombarding him with questions.

“did you get hurt?”

“no.”

“did he hurt you?”

“no.”

“are you okay?”

“yes.”

“are you sure?”

“yes, mom, I am fine,” megumi murmurs, cheeks heating up at your affection. toji chuckles at the display before looking at the principal.

the man purses his lips before sighing, “your son has beaten up jay.”

you and your husband blink silently. then your husband tilts his head, “who?”

the principal grits his teeth before standing up. he crosses his arms before huffing, “jay, the son of the town’s mayor! that boy is as important as his father, yet your son has so brazenly hurt him!”

you frown, “I don’t care who he is, and I am sure that my son won’t hit somebody for no reason!”

megumi nods, and you smile at him.

you pat his hair gently, and he reluctantly leans into the affection. meanwhile, toji has been listening silently before turning to megumi and asking, “who the hell is that?”

“the one with the sea slug hair,” he replies instantly. you let out a hum of recognition.

your husband stares blankly before he clicks his finger, “oh,” he then looks at megumi and ruffles his hair with a small grin, “I hated that kid’s dad—good job.”

megumi lets out a small smile before giving his dad a thumbs up. you roll your eyes with no real annoyance behind them and side-eye toji.

toji chuckles then looks at the fuming principal. the man, now red in the face, yells, “mr fushiguro, that is unacceptable behavior from both you and your son!”

“…okay?”

you shake your head and usher megumi out of the room. you and toji share a look, before you close the door. the moment it clicks, your husband turns to the principal with a blank face.

he takes a few steps, stopping right in front of the man. toji grabs the principal’s shoulder then speaks lowly, “you won’t speak of this, ‘kay?”

he nods frantically, face contorting as he tries to compose himself. toji smirks and heads to the door with a small wave, “see ya never, teach.”

your husband finds you and megumi in the school’s garden.

he sees megumi and yuuji—his friend—playing together, while you relax on the bench. for some reason, toji feels a wave of warmth flood his chest as when he sees you and megumi smiling.

yuuji yells something to you that makes you laugh heartily. toji feels himself relax and smile just slightly. it’s moments like these he feels ever so grateful to have you in his life.

and he swears to forever protect you and megumi. he has acknowledged a long time ago that his only wish is to be by your side.

that’s why, in no time, he is behind you, effectively blocking the sun. you look up from where you’re sat to your husband.

“hey pretty,” he hums.

you chuckle as he rests his elbows on the bench, “slain?”

he grins, “slain.”

taglist: @magenta-cat-drawingss@pompompurin1028@scul-pted@requiem626k@nameless-shrimp@sonder-paradise@jessbeinme15s-notebook @todorokichills @ginneko @missrown @shrynkk @simplyxsinned @beautiful-is-boring @starlostlaiba @izukus-gf @irethepotato @thekaylahub @dazaisbloodybandages @aeanya @sweetcloudsimp @moon-catto @the-midnightskies@pianopuppygirl @gojosblackqueen @kryscent @kunikida-simp @whoami-72 @mx-0-child @fiona782 @kisakitwister @imjustasimpxd @psychopotatomeme @dreamcastgirl99 @watyousayin @doobiebochana @laylasbunbunny @hojicha-expresso @4sat0ruu @nineooooo @chuuyasboots @alekssashka7 @rieejjyubi02 @satoryaa @nothisispatrick300 @fallencrescentmoon @etheviese @ho34gojo @the-mom-friend-dot-com @the-weeping-author

@libbyistired @anon1412@maehemthemisfit @satorustar @b4nka1@sad-darksoul@ko-fi-heart@pumpkindudeishere@suyaaachin@babyqueen17@chaosguy352@murakami-kotone@sukun4ryomen@yumieis@hearts4itoshi@sleepyxxhead@dunixxd@sleepycrybbylaiah @imjustaduckwholikesbread @emilyyyy-08@spacebaby1@arabellatreaty@viscade @washeduphasbeen @janbannan @sugurubabe @enidths @mwtsxri @peppersapro @uranosbaaee @lifeisadumpie @guacam011y @kurooandkenmasslut @callmemirro @your-sleeparalysisdem0n

do not copy or plagiarize

check out my buy me a coffee!

3K notes · View notes

tteokdoroki · 2 months ago

Text

˗ˏˋ 💎 JJK MEN AS OVERPROTECTIVE GIRL DADS gojo, sukuna & geto .ᐟ

⋆˙ ᯓ★ about ! “a little girl’s first love will always be her father." three scenarios in which the daughters of three jjk men introduce their boyfriends to their fathers. ( 5.7K )

warnings ! minors blank and ageless blogs do not interact. video banner. not beta read. sfw, fluff, angst if you squint, no-curses!au, mentions of pregnancy, children and babies, the children have no names, some family issues, married life, domestic bliss, husband + father!jjk men, mother + fem!reader.

sonic says ! hello everyone !! i wanted to try my hand at some head canons and scenarios, i couldn’t get this idea out of my head so put a pause on working on kinktober to write it lol!! hope you enjoy <3 - m.list ⋆ read on ao3 ! ִ ࣪𖤐₊

ᯓ★ SATORU GOJO:

before meeting you, satoru gojo had never been fond of a family dinner.

in his childhood home — they were cold and quiet, pockets of clattering cutlery would cut through painstaking silence and distract from the loud emptiness of the seat at the head of the table where his own father was supposed to be. his mother, often solemn and sunken in the shoulders, never spoke. never cooked and slipped small bites to her son in between preparation or steps.

they had staff for that, they had staff for everything.

to keep the household clean and together. to keep him fed and breathing. to keep him alive. all requirements felt almost clinical, the environment in which he was raised almost like the white walls of a hospital — without a trace of love needed for a child like satoru gojo needed to thrive.

even if he had all the money in the world, he hadn’t a drop of love. he wasn’t ever sure if he was capable of the warm and fuzzy emotion, didn’t know if it was something his heart could ever open up to — sealed in by layers of cool, cold concrete and cement. kept in a safe without a key. at least until you miraculously found it and melted the thick layers of ice blocking satoru’s veins. you brought back colour to his cheeks and light to his eyes, taking up the space in his heart where his family had left a swirling, black void.

to satoru, you were a saving grace. his everything… and he swore he’d never be like his father; who left his wife unhappy and empty, like a abandoned shell. he promised; he’d do much better than his parents ever did. especially when you found out you were pregnant, even more so when your little girl came into the world with plentiful white curls and lashes, screaming at the top of her teeny tiny lungs.

at the time, you were sure you’d never seen satoru gojo so in love ( and so teary eyed too ) — but you knew what becoming a parent meant to him. what it meant for the new life you now shared.

but now, having met you and married you and created life with you — satoru had found a new appreciation for family dinners. they were a sacred event, a special time for him to keep up with the lives of his children and let them know he was there. present.

it wasn’t a time to be imposed on and certainly not by meddlesome boyfriends brought home by sixteen year old daughters.

“so kid, what’s your 401K look like?”

satoru carries a look of disdain, his nostrils flared, blue eyes narrowed and perfect pink lips curled in an unhappy frown.

the young boy opposite him, a little scrawny and awkward, shrinks underneath the white haired man’s intense gaze — if you squinted, you could probably see him shaking like a little leaf in the intense wind from across the table “um… i don’t know?”

“hear that little guy? no 401K… how’s he meant to take care of your sister. yeah, yeah.

you’re right, i’ll give him a chance,” he mutters to the baby boy snoozing happily in his arms under his breath, engaging in a one sided conversation before switching his focus back to his daughter’s…sorry excuse for a partner. “okay then… finances, clearly not. academics and common sense —“ pausing, the white haired father of two clicks his tongue, pushing it into the soft flesh on the inside of his cheek as if to feel his next words out in his mouth. “do you even know what a bouquet of flowers is, kid? a corsage? gojo women don’t play about their flowers, yanno.”

“sir—“

without giving the boy a chance to speak, gojo drops his intrusive gaze under the table and back up again — pointing an accusatory finger at his little girl’s partner. “your top button’s undone and your shoe laces are untied. you might wanna fix that! if you care about my daughter’s safety!” he turns his nose up all petulant like a picky toddler being forced to eat his veggies, he even sticks his tongue out for good measure. gojo’s eccentric movements nearly jostle his sleepy son in place. the baby whines and gurgles a little bit, only soothed by a pat to his back from dad — who repositions him to snooze over his shoulder.

in a silent, quieter gesture, satoru uses two fingers to point between his eyes and the boy’s. almost as if to say ‘i’m watching you.’

catching him in the act, the eldest gojo daughter bounces into the room carrying plates of steaming hot food, exhaling with worm down patience evident in her body language. “daddy please, you don’t act like this normally. stop messing around.” rolling her eyes, she sets the dishes down, freeing up her hand to smack the back of her dad’s clearly empty skull. just like her mother.

“well sooooorrry for being a good dad and caring about your wellbeing! who you’re dating! who you’re bringing into our bloodline!” gojo rebuttals with petish grunts, unable to cradle the back of his injured head like he does with his son.

and as if by magic, you, his beautiful and loving and gorgeous wife appear with dinner plates in hand to double down on a scolding the white haired man. amused, you also swat at your husband’s head and tut down at him. “satoru? what are you doing?” there’s something about the way you tease and tell gojo off that always makes his heart race, even after all these years of marriage and raising his kids. he loves you, his family so much. he almost keens into your touch like a pathetic dog, until your daughter starts gagging at the sight — slipping into her set. you were supposed to be watching the baby. not interrogating the poor kid.”

“we’re having a heart to heart, babe,” gojo swoons, clearing his throat as his head bobs in the direction of his daughter’s boyfriend. “jimbob here was just telling me about his 3.4% grade point average.”

“it’s hiro sir! and uh… 3.5% sir.” the boyfriend in question chirps shyly.

you know that your husband feels… almost threatened by another man entering your daughter’s life — they’ve been practically inseparable since the moment she first opened her eyes. to give up the duty of loving and protecting her and pass it onto someone else is probably what scares him the most. “that’s pretty good hun!” you comment absentmindedly, hoping to pull satoru away from the conversation.

“no it’s not! our daughter has a 4.0%.”

“s-she was failing in math, i was tutoring her.” the boyfriend hopefully interjects again, whispering next when the baby stirs at the dining table. “i hope that makes up for my 401K sir. i-i also work part time to save for college and—!”

“haha — no i wasn’t!” the younger gojo girl tenses in place, elbowing her date in the ribs not so discretely from under the table. it’s this interaction that makes her father smile, only briefly, before you scowl his way.

“i thought you told them we met at a tutoring session.”

“you were failing?” you raise a brow, taking your own seat beside her father.

“see! this boy failure is a bad influence on our daughter!” a glare settles on the slopes of satoru’s angelic features, mirrored by your child’s unimpressed expression across the table. in his arms, your youngest fusses about as if he senses the mounting tension at the table — earning a bounce or two from daddy, who turns your way all matter-of-factly like. “see, this why he doesn’t have a 401K”

“why would a teenager have a 401k, satoru!” comes your exasperated sigh.

“i had one when i was his age.” satoru shoots back and the kid sinks nervously in his seat. the poor boy looks as though he wants to disappear, squirming in place like he’s no better than a worm on a bait hook — it’s torture being interrogated and inspected by someone so close to the person you love most, but even he knows how important satoru’s approval is to your daughter.

she wouldn’t say it now, not when she was all grown up and finding her way out in the world — but she idolised gojo, all of her fondest memories are painted in his colours. shades of sapphire and azure like his vivid eyes, snowy white from his hair that almost rivals the clouds in the sky — the backdrop to days spent riding her father’s shoulders through the big wide world, racing down grassy green hills and wasting the hours away. she wouldn’t admit it here, today, but she never wanted to leave those memories. leave her father behind in her youth — it was written on each dip and curve and highlight on her youthful face, she wanted her father to move into this next phase of life with her too.

“daddy, you were a trust fund baby with shit grades and no prospects until you met mum,” she huffs but her words hold no malice, even if the sass brims over the edge of her tone like an emotionally charged, overflowing glass of water. you’d chide her for cursing — but you know she means well, stubbornly expressing her desire for approval to her man child of a father. “a loser, if you will.”

gojo slumps, the rosey petals of his plump lips pushing into an age old pout. “how could you say that about dear old dad?” he whines, as though he’s a wounded animal.

“well she’s not wrong, baby. you were a loser satoru, you still are.” the words are fond and light hearted on your tongue, a similar state to the wisps of a smile that trace over your own lips. leaning in close, you tickle the nose of the gurgling baby boy in his arms, heart heavy with affection — grateful that the one interaction you had with your husband all those years ago ( when he was a scrapier and misunderstood ) led you both to the beautiful chaotic family you have together now. “a hot one at least.”

“gross.” your daughter groans and buries her embarrassed gaze in the spread of food on the neatly laid table — grabbing a plate and piling it high to cope.

her boyfriend chuckles nervously, wanting nothing more but to eat and do the same. desperate to hide from gojo’s intimidating aura, but too afraid to cross another one of his ridiculous invisible lines. “i think that’s very sweet mrs gojo!”

the brief moment of peace in the war of dad v boyfriend is then interrupted by the white haired man’s temper tantrum, realising that his only daughter is still in the room. “don’t push it kid.” the father of your children all but wails and finds something else about the young couple to pick apart. “you’re sitting too close together! move apart!”

“daddy—!”

“w-what?”

“i said move it or lose it kid, before i keel over and die of heartbreak.” “betrayal. my own daughter, leaving me for someone else.”

the two separate, shifting their chairs away from one another despite never actually being too close. you share an empathetic look with your eldest, empathetic to your husband’s actions. you both knew he wouldn’t handle the meeting well, but this was beyond your whilst dreams. the young couple’s hands remain intertwined under the table cloth as the meal begins properly, and when satoru notices, he doesn’t comment — biting down hard on his unhappy tongue. he knows all too well what it’s like to love against the odds, his father in law hardly wanted him around you. it’s not like he wasn’t aware how bad he was for you, how your standards might have even dropped for the man to be with him. but you loved satoru with your entire being, wholly and against all of your own parent’s wishes.

in a way, the dinner tonight reminds him of himself meeting your father for the first time — how he had to work for his approval too. prove that he was more than just a spoilt brat. too caught up in the memories, the odd sense of loss threaded between his every breath and the love he holds for his daughter settled in his lungs — gojo almost kissed the way you whisper to him adoringly, head drooping to rest on his shoulder mostly to look at your baby but partly to comfort him. “you’re being dramatic satoru. look at them, don’t you just love young love.”

and he does, he looks, really looks — softly staring across the table and through the haze of his own judgement, noticing how happy his little girl looks all wrapped up with her boyfriend. all he’s ever wanted is to keep her smiling, give her a life that his parents couldn’t give him, he feels all of his resentment and fear or losing his daughter melt away like a plain sheet of paper dissolving in water. he loves her too much to not let her be happy, his baby. his little girl.

“no, not at all,” satoru finally relents with a wobbling voice and silvery tears that dot his vision — shaking his head back and forth to stop them from dropping onto his sleeping son gathered in his arms. “w-why would you say that? god, is it allergy season? my eyes are killing me. they’re not cute at all, why would you say that i’m crying?”

your teenage daughter glances over, relief evident in all of her identical gojo features. “no one mentioned you crying, daddy.” she coos softly in an attempt to console satoru.

it doesn’t work, he starts dry heaving and sobbing. which is new for her, he hasn’t cried this hard since her baby brother was born.

the kid scrambles into his pocket and damn near stumbles over the table in order to hand your white haired lover a tissue. “i don’t think you’re crying sir!”

“shut up!” gojo sniffles dramatically, putting on his best theatre kid act and drapes himself ( and the baby ) all over you. “shit, is this cushioned tissue? three ply?” pale, deft fingers swipe at the blue pools of eyes which well with tears while the kid nods over enthusiastically — desperate to please his girlfriend’s guardian. “good stuff this is… but this doesn’t mean i approve of you for my daughter!”

“gojo!”

“whaaaaat!? he doesn’t have a 401K!”

ᯓ★ RYOMEN SUKUNA:

if you’d told sukuna, almost a decade and a half ago, that he would end up with a life shrouded in domestic bliss — he would have laughed in your face. maybe even called you a cunt whilst telling you to fuck off. back then, when he was younger and the spirit of ambitious fire burned brightly in his veins as though he had petroleum for blood, the pink haired man never dreamed of settling down. buying a house. getting married. or having kids.

he was as untameable as a wild horse, with only one goal in mind. to open up his restaurant and get his family out of that shithole town by all and any means. he’d cross whatever rivers he had to, climb whatever mountains he needed to — push past societal hurdles that judged him for the pink in his hair and the thick ink on his body. ryomen sukuna did not care. not about anyone else, only about his goals.

at least, until he met you.

in many ways, you were a blessing to the world where sukuna was a curse. his complete opposite, the day to his night. though the worlds and lives you came from were completely different —

nowadays, the man is a little softer around the edges and weaker in the heart — they say that’s what true love does to you.

a set of keys jingle at the front door, followed by the dull thud of trainers on the shoe rack and footsteps on the mahogany wood floor. sukuna hardly looks up from the article he’s reading — something about the best recipes for autumnal vegetables. who would have thought, ryomen sukuna, reading up on gardening. he would tell anyone who asked it was for his restaurant, not because he actually enjoyed it. would make him look soft.

“hey, i’m home!” the voice that calls to him is sweet and youthful, a dulcet symphony that tugs paternally at the pink haired man’s heart strings. “is ma here?”

sukuna smiles to himself behind the newspaper, inhaling its fresh ink scent. “in the kitchen, workin’,” he replies absentmindedly, listening to his daughter skid down the hall after dropping her backpack. “oi squirt, you ain’t slick. you know what day it is, report card. now.”

there’s a dramatic sigh that follows footsteps trailing back into the living room. sukuna’s daughter, his pride and joy clings onto the doorframe with a scowl that could very well rival his own, ruby red eyes twinkling with annoyance — she’s in a rush to chat with her mother after school, he knows, but he can’t help but to tease her just a bit. “s’in my bag, can i go now?” she whines impatiently but takes off at the first gentle nod from her father in reply.

but the pink haired parent’s peaceful evening is quickly turned upside down at the discovery he makes in the bottom of his pride and joy’s bag. no matter how much time has passed, how many decades have gone by in which he’s been a father — nothing could prepare him for this new challenge, the new wave of emotions that come with having a tween daughter and swirl hotly in his chest.

“what the fuck is this?” he announces with a foul snarl, slipping into the kitchen where his girls chitchat idly over a test batch of cookies sukuna had made earlier in the day. for his restaurant of course. not because he’s a doting husband or loving father. he’s got an image to uphold and it’s not one of domestic bliss.

his daughter chirps, not looking up from the sweet treat she picks apart and pops into her mouth — seated on the kitchen island while you work away on your laptop. “what’s what, daddy?” her innocent nonchalance about the older sukuna’s discovery almost makes him pop a vein. “also, ma told you to stop saying the f-word. so, swear jar.”

the hulking man with the contrastingly soft pink pokes his tongue into the soft epithelium of his cheek, his jaw ticks and a playful frustration tingles throughout all four of his limbs. the swear jar was something you’d brought into play as soon as [daughter name] had learned how to talk, afraid that your rough and rugged husband’s potty mouth would rub off on her young impressionable mind. every time a cursed word falls from between ryomen sukuna’s lips, a couple hundred yen is popped into the jar as punishment. the thing was practically full by your baby’s third birthday, so you’ve been putting it down as her college fund ever since.

paper rustles between deft and tattooed fingers as sukuna reveals not a report card, but a crinkled note like the kind passed back and forth between distracted kids in the middle of that one class before lunch. “don’t play dumb with me, squirt.” ryomen holds the note up to the light so that both of his girls can see, blood diamond eyes squinting so he can inspect it better. somebody get this guy his glasses. “‘do you want to go out with me? tick for yes, cross for no.’” he reads out loud, each word leaving a bitter taste on his tongue, his frown so deep that lines of disapproval form on his well-aged face.

thoughts of the once all-important report card vanish into thin air, the relaxed aura in the room replaced with a palatable tension that not even your husband’s finest knives could cut. your precious baby girl shoots up from the counter to scramble with her dad over the note in hand. he holds her back with a large palm to the forehead.

“oh my god! you weren’t supposed to see that! daddy, give it here. please!”

“fat chance, squirt,” the tattooed man retorts. “you passin’ notes in class? that why you’re hidin’ your report card?”

“you can have my report card, when you give that back!”

with the two standing side by side, the resemblance strikes you as clear as day. they share the same hair, same scowl and same rugged intonation to their voices. they’re both yours, your entire world under one roof. before they can blow said root off, you stand between the elder and younger sukuna — turning to your husband with hooded eyes and a gentle hand on the centre of his broad chest. “oh ryo,” you coo in flirtation, slowing his train of thought as you sneakily swipe the crushed paper from his grip. “shut up ‘n let me see that.”

your daughter gags behind you at the display of affection, contrasting with the amused smirk you share with your long time lover. after all this time, marriage and the perfect kid, you’re still able to make a fool out of him — make sukuna’s heart skip a beat and a heat he refuses to acknowledge crawl up the back of his neck. he’s gone soft, for you and his family. for now, for you, he relents on taunting his precious little girl.

casting your gaze over the note, you grin at the pink-ink chicken scratch scribbled across the page. it’s sweet and endearing, reminding you of young love. “did atsushi finally ask you out?” you ask tenderly, handing the paper back to your daughter who cuddles it to her chest like the physical version of a precious memory.

a bashful expression lines the contours of her face, seeping into features you’d recognise from your husband on her. sukuna would argue that she has the shape of your eyes and your beauty too — but all you see is a culmination of love. “ma you were so totally right, playing hard to get really works!”

she gushes dreamily over her crush like it’s puppy love, biting her lip and bouncing on the spot.

“like a charm, every time.” comes your entertained response, much to your husband’s dismay.

“you weren’t playin’ hard to get with me…” sukuna questions rather than states, trying to piece together parts of the gossip that he’s missed. an anxiety corners the beat of his heart at the thought of his daughter dating, something in which the burly man never thought he would be afraid of. the world had been hard on sukuna; he only worries that it’s not as safe for his pride and joy as it were for him. “never mind that; the brat asked you out with a piece of paper? y’better not have said yes. we have standards here.”

his words make you roll your eyes with the hint of a smile. ryomen almost reminding you of your own father around the time you’d met him.

your daughter scrunches her nose petulantly, gearing herself up for a witty reply. “well ma married you, so her standards can’t be that high.” she snaps, earning a stifled laugh from you and an unimpressed grunt from her hardheaded dad. “and no, i didn’t. told him he needed to ask me out properly. face to face. with words. he said to meet him on the running track tomorrow at lunch for a surprise!”

pulling her into a hug, you kiss her round youthful cheek. “oh baby, i'm so happy for you!”

“well i ain’t! show me the damn kid, need to see what kind of pitiful brat wants to ask out my little girl,” sukuna crosses his arms and grumbles to himself, black ink tattoos flexing menacingly as he does so. almost as if he’s preparing to threaten the kid before even meeting him. “whatever happened to askin’ for permission to court or whatever. he should have been on my doorstep asking for your hand.”

“firstly you would have said no, and secondly this isn’t the olden days, dad. nobody does that anymore.” your cheeky daughter chides him loudly, her words slipping over her snarky little tongue. like father like daughter, the way they snip and snap at one another has an uncanny resemblance.

tilting your head upwards towards your fuming husband, you laugh breathlessly in a way that washes away his anger.“she’s right ryo; though my dad hardly approved of you either.” you say softly. even now, you make him feel weak in the knees and dizzy in the mind, like he’s so anything for you. whoever dates his daughter should feel the same about her.

“i freakin’ earned it, didn’t i?

“just barely.”

sukuna huffs but settles a hand on your waist from behind and his head atop yours. he needs to soothe himself somehow, his daughter is growing too fast. “stop ganging up on me and lemme see the damn kid.”

“here, isn’t he cute.”

lips downturned, sukuna craned his neck to look at your daughter’s phone from over your shoulder — scrutinising the instagram page that she’s opened now offering the kid his only child has taken an interest in like a lamb at the slaughterhouse. “brat looks like a noodle.” haughty laughter fills the kitchen, reverberating against the bones and organs in ryomen’s chest and buzzing right though your back. “you’re right i woulda said no as soon as he fuckin’ turned up!”

two sets of scolding eyes similar in shape, belonging to the two girls he loves the most swivel around to face the pink haired man disapprovingly.

“ryomen sukuna!”

“daddy!”

“yeah yeah, i know. swear jar.”

ᯓ★ SUGURU GETO:

“my love, were you aware that our little munchkin has a boyfriend?”

suguru looks up from the bubbling pot of child friendly pasta sauce on the stove. if it were just the two of you having dinner tonight, like it was merely three (nearly four) years ago — he would have planned for a more adventurous meal. perhaps sought out a bottle of fine aged wine for you both to enjoy on the balcony and even gotten a dessert to sweeten the date in. but now, you both had more than two hungry tummies to worry about, and bottles of wine could only be purchased when the little one was off with her uncle satoru.

“no, i wasnt. i don't believe that’s come up in discussion before,” your dark haired lover turns his narrow gaze to the giggly little girl swaddled in your arms — her chubby cheeks and dark, curious eyes just peeking out of the fluffy duck-themed towel you’ve wrapped her in. bath time is usually after bed, but someone got into the paint pots at nursery school and managed to get blotches of blue streaked through her hair and under her fingernails. “care to elaborate sweetheart?”

suguru taps the wooden sauce spoon against the side of the pot and swipes his hands on a nearby tea towel before allowing them to rest on his hips, look of faux irritation settling on the contours of his face and slopes of his features. thin brows draw together like closed gates in the middle of his forehead — the expression earning airy light and squealed laughter from your baby girl.

“nuh uhhh! not my boy-fend!” she babbles her way through the big girl word, missing a few syllables here and there, but geto still grins with pride — happily leaning forward to press enthusiastic kisses to his little angel’s damp forehead. “no boy-fend papa!

bouncing your daughter slightly, you cock your hip out to hold her weight and cheekily roll your eyes. “such a daddy’s girl, lying to him already? he’ll let you get away with anything if you keep that up,” though you muster up a pout to rival the toddler’s, the uncanny resemblance warming the cockles or your husband’s heart, your tone is playful and adoring — it’s lilt full of love for the baby girl you made together. you pinch her chubby cheek, waggling it from side to side as more of her childlike laughter tangles with the scent of pasta in the air. “we bumped into the fujioka boy and his mother at the gates this morning, he held her hand all the way up to the classroom. it was quite cute. you had to be there, love.”

“i’m sure,” he responds, gentle mirth and protectiveness swirling in dark framed eyes.

you relay the information to your husband as though it’s hot gossip fresh from the press, whispering over your dark-haired daughter’s head not so secretly. even with the hair and eyes to match suguru’s, she’s still just as much your carbon copy as she is his — he tends to say all of her spirit comes from you, not to mention the way she laughs and smiles.

shaking her head between you, both — your baby chimes in brightly. “noooo mama!! boys are gross, i don’ hold hands with boys.”

this time suguru manoeuvres to pinch her other chubby cheek, clicking his tongue as he does so. “not even papa?” he pretends to pout, crouching down with his hands on his knees to coo into her sweet little face.

“nuhhh, papa isn’t gross!! papa is my favourite boy!” she quickly tacks on with a dribbly smile.

“that’s right. i’ll be the only boy in your life always, just you and i princess,” your husband reaffirms with a firm shake of his head and presses a promise in the form of a kiss to your daughter’s nose. her chubby little hands, still wet from bath time, smack either side of suguru’s face and keep him close — close enough for her to plant a soggy smooch onto his forehead affectionately. a wet kiss only a father could love. “that settles it, i’m no longer sharing my kisses. papa says no boyfriends until you’re ninety.”

once your two loves are done sharing their candied affections, you seat your daughter on the edge of the kitchen table to allow geto the room to finish up with dinner. the comforting symphony of baby babbles and kitchen utensils clanking and food boiling fills the steamy air, it makes you smile. it feels like home. “oh come on suguru, they’re only three. don’t you think it’s the tiniest bit adorable?” you say with a sing-songy voice, entertaining both your little one and her father.“they even share their animal crackers during break time and crayons when it’s time to colour, one of the supervisors told me.”

with his back now to you as he stirs through the pasta sauce one final time, you hardly miss the way suguru’s shoulders tense at the mention of the little boy your girl has taken a liking to. he wouldn’t dare frown about it in front of her, what upsets daddy upsets baby too. that’s why he’s always smiling for her, and you find the man’s subtle jealousy endearing. it’s always supposed to be suguru and his princess, with no room for anyone else ( aside from you, of course )

“nope, no boyfriends. no amount of cuteness can convince me otherwise.” voice falling tight and flat, suguru reaches into the cupboards for plates and bowls to dish up his lovingly prepared home cooked meal, slamming them into place at the table with a little less patience than before.

the idea of some… little boy chasing after his daughter’s heart? over his dead body.

“boy-fends are gross!” but your daughter is forever a daddy’s girl, furrowing her brow and crossing her tiny arms in an act of defiance — supporting her papa’s cause. boyfriends are bad!

fuelling her excitement and even more support for papa — food is served shortly by your husband, who plates up as best as he can with toddler safe dinnerware. you adjust your little girl into her high chair at the table, giggling to yourself softly when she cranes her neck to keep an eye on suguru. “does that mean papa’s gross? he’s technically mama’s boyfriend.”

“husband, love, there’s a difference.”

three plates of hot, aromatic spaghetti are organised in a table — each a domestic reminder of the family suguru geto has been blessed with. in that moment, he thinks he would be happy if he spent the rest of his life as just the three of you. briefly his mind wonders to setting a fourth place at the table in a decade or so’s time, once his daughter truly is old enough to date. the very thought makes him feel ill.

round, doe eyes dart between you and suguru as you take your seats either side of your darling daughter at the table — she mimics you both with fumbling little fingers that reach for her baby fork and concentrates as she attempts to repeat your husband’s words. “can i have a husbsband-love?”

you laugh and kiss her cheek, helping her to gather a bite of pasta on the full end of her fork. “husband. just husband, my love. make sure you blow on your food please!” she follows your instructions with a comical air, cheeks puffing and breath huffing while you explain why her father is a second away from blowing his top. “good girl. husband’s aren’t for babies, baby. and i think papa might not like it if you got one now.”

“if you got one ever!” suguru interjects, eyes narrowing while he fights with his lips to avoid a scowl. “the answer is still no, princess. no husbands and no boyfriends until papa is old, cold and in the ground.”

now that your hands are free, you grab the nearest tea towel and wind it up in your grip — launching its tail end at geto as though to swat at him. he jumps in surprise and your daughter shrieks in amusement as she begins babbling again. “don worry, papa!. fujioka is no my boy-fend!!” she says over food in her mouth and happy tummy. geto wipes over her face again. she’ll definitely need another bath later. “hasegawa is!!”

the pair of you share a look and this time, you really think suguru might just throw in the towel.

how could he compete with pre-school love and paint pots shared over playtime gossip?

“two boyfriends? oh god, love… i think need some air.”

3K notes · View notes