torueater

[torueater]

satoru is terrible at keeping secrets.

especially when that secret is you finally, after two years of relentless, dramatic, embarrassingly persistent courting, agreeing to be his girlfriend.

he swore up and down he could handle it—“…sure, sure, lowkey, hush-hush, i got you, baby,” he said, practically bouncing in place like the golden retriever he is, his white hair a fluffy mess, bouncing with every nod, bright blue eyes sparkling behind his blindfold—because, yeah, okay, it made sense. things were complicated. it would be messy if people found out too soon.

but also? it was satoru.

it was the lovesick man who has been hopelessly, pathetically down bad for you since the moment he laid eyes on you, and turns out, yeah, he can’t hide shit.

he’s doing the most. failing the most.

he’s staring at you during work like you’re the moon, the stars, the air he breathes, and probably breakfast, lunch, and dinner, too. the kind of gaze that has hearts practically floating out of his head like a bad shoujo manga. his lips tug upward in a soft, lopsided grin every time you so much as sigh. and it doesn’t help that he smiles like an absolute idiot every time you speak—his fingers fiddling with his pen, twirling it with that restless energy, like he’s got nowhere else to look but you. sometimes he props his chin on his hand, elbow on the desk, feet swinging beneath his chair, eyes glimmering with obvious affection. sometimes he kicks his feet, like he’s writing your name in hearts all over his notes.

and when people tease him about it?

“uh…uh…she’s just…” he chokes, rubbing the back of his neck, his white hair falling into his flushed face. his sunglasses slide down his nose as he stammers, his fingers nervously drumming on the table. “she’s cool! yeah! a really… really… cool… coworker!”

uh huh.

people start noticing real fast. the way you bring two drinks into meetings, both his favorite. the way his jacket mysteriously ends up on your chair, like he’s perpetually cold even though he’s not. the way you two walk in separately but somehow always leave together. the way satoru is always hovering two inches behind you like he’s your personal security detail, or maybe just your lovesick guard dog, his long legs struggling to slow his stride to match yours. his glasses slips sometimes, revealing those ridiculously bright eyes trained on you and only you.

and when you whip your head slightly and whisper scoldings under your breath, lips barely moving—"“you’re gonna blow our cover, dumbass”—he just beams, a grin so wide his cheeks push up against his blindfold. his fingers twitch, aching to reach out and tuck a stray hair behind your ear. it’s the kind of smile that could knock the air out of your lungs if you weren’t already holding your breath trying not to combust. he tilts his head like he’s imagining sliding a ring on your finger already, the soft flush on his cheeks betraying how much he’s already too far gone.

it’s not just the staring. it’s the giddiness. the way he forgets to keep his distance when you’re around. the way his shoulders instantly straighten when you walk into the room, like his whole body is magnetized to you. the way his fingers tap against the desk like he can’t wait to talk to you again. the way he fumbles, dropping his pen or knocking over his water bottle, when someone catches him looking at you like you’re his entire universe. it’s the way he instantly brings you snacks he swore were “for everyone” but somehow always end up on your desk, the wrappers piling up as you pretend not to enjoy the attention.

it’s also the way you’re absolutely pissed when you realize he’s blowing the secret wide open. your jaw tightens, your foot taps the floor, your arms cross, and your glare sharpens to a laser beam. you’ve warned him. you’ve scolded him. you’ve threatened to dump him—half-joking, half-very-much-not—if he keeps being so obvious. you press your palm to your temple in frustration as you whisper, "you're killing me here, satoru."

and suddenly, he’s panicking. his hands flail, baby blues orbs widening . his voice cracks, desperate. his fingers clutch the air like he's trying to grab the right words before they scatter.

“no, no, no, babe… please don’t dump me. i’ll do better, i swear. i’ll look less. i’ll… i’ll stare at the wall instead. i’ll wear sunglasses indoors. i’ll look at the floor forever. i’ll… i’ll even switch departments. please, please don’t leave me. i won’t survive it. i’ll just crumble into dust. i’ll haunt you. but like… in a hot way.”

he's clutching his chest dramatically, leaning into the nearest table for support like he’s seconds from collapsing. his bottom lip juts out in a pitiful pout, and his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you but knows he can’t—not here, not now. his feet shuffle in place like he’s trying to root himself to the ground, but his whole body screams to be closer to you.

“you’re so bad at this,” you deadpan, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded, pretending you’re not melting inside because you’re emotionally constipated and you like to act like you’re not just as whipped. but your ears are pink. you know they are. you can feel the heat blooming across your skin. you shift your weight onto one leg, tapping your finger against your elbow in mock annoyance, but your foot has already inched closer to his.

“but you still love me right?” he pouts, voice softening, tilting his head as he leans closer like a puppy waiting for a treat. his hair flops forward over his blindfold, his grin tentative, hopeful, like he’s staking his entire existence on your next words. his toes point toward you, his shoulders curling in, like you’re his center of gravity.

“you’re lucky you’re cute,” you grumble, rolling your eyes, but you’re already reaching for his hand beneath the table, already letting him lace his fingers with yours, his thumb stroking soft circles into your skin like it’s instinct, like it’s home. he squeezes your hand like he never plans to let go.

he brightens instantly, a soundless laugh puffing from his chest, his white hair bouncing with the force of his excitement. his entire body relaxes, his feet kicking slightly under the table. “i’ll be better! i’ll be so sneaky, baby! like a ninja! you won’t even see me coming! i’ll be a ghost! you’ll be so proud of me!”

spoiler: he does not, in fact, get any sneakier.

he gets worse. because now he’s trying so hard to “be sneaky” that he ends up staring harder. he waves at you across the room with a smile that’s way too fond, his hand flopping in a lazy, unmistakable greeting that lingers just a second too long. he trips over his own feet when you so much as glance in his direction, scrambling to play it cool like his heart didn’t just somersault into his throat. he texts you from three desks away: “do you miss me?” like you’re not in the same building, like he hasn’t seen you in five minutes. he sends you selfies from the next room with captions like, “thinking of you” and “missing my girl.”

he's a terrible liar. but he’s the best boyfriend.

so you let him. you let him slip up. you let him look at you like you’re his whole world. you let him wear that stupid grin. you let him love you loudly, even when he’s supposed to be quiet about it. you let him text you unnecessarily, bring you snacks with your name written on the wrapper, and you let him keep leaving his jacket on your chair.

you’re just as hopeless, aren’t you?

[torueater]

quick one

[torueater]

Satoru never cared much for babies.

He thought they were sticky. Loud. Strange little creatures with too-big eyes and unpredictable emotions. “You can’t even do anything with them,” he used to say, half-laughing, always dismissive. He didn’t see the appeal. Not then.

But now, when those tiny, hiccuping cries echo through the house, it’s his hands that reach out first. His steps that are soft, practiced, sure, against the cool hardwood floors. He lifts them into his arms with a tenderness he didn’t know he had, whispering low and sweet as if the words alone might soothe them. “Shh… I got you, baby. You’re okay now. Daddy’s here."

The nursery is dim, painted in golden hues from the rising sun that spill in through gauzy curtains. And in the quiet of it all, Satoru rocks them slowly, heart twisting at the way such a tiny thing could cling so tightly to him.

Their little fingers curl instinctively around his, impossibly small and soft. The little fist moving to tug at his snow-white hair with an uncoordinated giggle, and Satoru laughs too - gentle and breathless and amazed. He leans in close and nuzzles their round belly, peppering noisy kisses between mock growls.

“The strongest needs a snack,” he murmurs against their skin, grinning as the baby squeals with delight.

And still, deep in his mind, something quiet aches.

I didn’t think I’d ever have this.

Didn’t think I’d survive long enough to want it.

Didn’t know I could be this soft, this full, this happy.

Later, you’ll find them sprawled together on the living room floor. Satoru still half bare chested and Hello Kitty pajama pants, hair a mess, baby asleep on his chest - both of them completely knocked out. His hand cradles their back protectively, even in sleep. His breath rises and falls in rhythm with theirs.

And as you stand there watching, heart full to the brim, Satoru stirs just enough to crack one sleepy, love-dazed eye open.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice hoarse with exhaustion and something tender, “look what we made.”

[torueater]

[torueater]

save a cow ride a boy or what um save a uh ride a horse no its save a uhh guys who we saving

[torueater]

[torueater]

“happy father’s day,” you murmur, slipping your arms around gojo’s waist from behind.

he’s halfway through shoveling a spoonful of strawberry ice cream into his mouth and pauses mid-bite.

“huh?” he mumbles, turning slightly in your arms with a mouthful and furrowed brow. “baby, you know we don’t have kids, right? unless you’ve been hiding a baby somewhere i don’t know about?”

you roll your eyes. “i know, dumbass.”

he pouts. “so why’re you saying—”

you just point with your chin across the courtyard.

he follows your gaze.

there, lounging like a band of chaotic little gremlins, are yuuji, megumi, and nobara, bickering over popsicle flavors. maki’s sitting on the bench beside them, trying not to smile as panda pokes fun at toge for something, who just responds with a flat “salmon.”

satoru looks, then looks again.

then his eyes widen behind his sunglasses, lips parting just slightly. “oh.”

you nod. “yeah.”

he turns fully in your arms, ice cream long forgotten, the softest smile blooming across his face—bright and fond and achingly proud.

“they’re kids,” he says quietly, “they’re my little kids.”

“exactly,” you say, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “you taught them how to fight, how to survive. how to live. they’re still here because of you.”

he blinks a few times. doesn’t say anything.

just watches as yuuji leans back and laughs so hard he nearly tips over, megumi catching him by the collar without looking. nobara shoves them both and gets dragged into the pile.

maki shakes her head. panda sighs. toge just laughs.

a tiny, watery chuckle escapes satoru’s chest.

you nudge him gently. “you’re not just their sensei. you’re their… you know. their person.”

he leans into your forehead and breathes in slow. “you’re gonna make me cry,” he says, voice cracking a little.

“good,” you smile, wiping under his glasses.

he kisses you, sweet and slow, and then pulls back to yell at the kids, voice suddenly obnoxiously loud—

“hey! none of you got me a card?! what kind of disrespect—megumi, stop pretending you don’t care, you’re my grumpy little son—”

megumi groans. nobara throws a napkin at him. yuuji waves enthusiastically and screams, “HAPPY DAD’S DAY, SENSEI!”

and gojo beams so hard it looks like the sun broke loose from the sky and settled in his chest.

tori’s notes ᝰ.ᐟ i guess i’m a little late but happy father’s day gojo!! ily pls come back home

[torueater]

The moment Satoru found out his wife was pregnant, something shifted inside him — like an ancient spell breaking open in his chest, releasing light and warmth he hadn't known he'd been missing.

He’d stared at the little test in your shaking hands, blinking under the harsh bathroom light, and when you looked up at him — nervous, hopeful — he didn’t say a word at first. He just fell to his knees and pressed his forehead gently against your stomach, arms wrapping around your hips as if to say thank you to the tiny life just beginning there.

From then on, it was like the world had flipped upside down in the gentlest, most absurd way.

Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer alive, was suddenly anxious about everything. He kept one hand behind your back every time you walked as if you'd tip over without it. He scowled at the stairs as if they’d personally offended him. He triple-checked the expiration date on everything you ate, even the fruits. Apples!

“Do you think our baby likes apples?” he’d asked one afternoon, watching you crunch into one while curled up on the couch.

“I think I like apples,” you laughed.

“Okay, but we’re a team now. You and the baby are a package deal. So I’m asking for both of you!”

You'd just rolled your eyes — but smiled the whole time.

He thought your cravings were adorable. Even the 2 AM “we need fried chicken right now” kind of cravings. There was no mountain he wouldn't climb for you — and in fact, he did climb one once to get a specific type of peach you said you wanted. He’d teleport to different prefectures if needed.

Your growing belly was his favorite thing in the world. He loved watching you rest your hand on it absentmindedly, like you were already cradling the baby. He’d trace soft patterns over your skin with his fingers, murmuring nonsense stories to the child who kicked like they already had opinions.

He was fascinated by everything. The sound of your baby's heartbeat on the monitor. The way you waddled and scolded him when he called it cute — but he did think it was cute. You were beautiful like the moon — soft, whole, glowing in a way that wasn’t meant to be touched but cherished from beside.

He kept a journal. Something he never told anyone.

It wasn’t elegant or poetic — it was full of rambling thoughts, doodles, little “today the baby kicked again” notes, and things he wanted to tell them when they were older. Sometimes he wrote about how scared he was. How the world was cruel. How much he wanted to protect them. How he was afraid he wouldn't be enough. But always, at the end of the entry, he’d write:

“But your mom is here. And that makes everything okay.”

Satoru was the kind of man who laughed too loud and talked too much, but around you lately, he’d gone soft and quiet in the evenings. He loved brushing your hair back behind your ear. Loved kissing your shoulder when you leaned into him. Loved pressing his cheek to your belly and just… being. No missions. No curses. No battles. Just you.

And despite all his fears — the world, the danger, the weight of who he was — he was happy. Genuinely, finally happy.

It hit him one night when you fell asleep on his chest, your hand loosely over his heart, your child nestled between you two.

He whispered into the silence, voice rough with awe, “I think… I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

And for once, Satoru Gojo didn't feel like the last one standing in a war-torn world. He felt like a man — loved, loving, waiting for a life to bloom.

[torueater]

★ in which satoru assures you that pre-wedding jitters are nothing to be worried about xx

"you're freaking out," satoru says, his knock on the heavy mahogany door startling you. your eyes dart to the rich wood, and a frown creases your brow.

"don't come in!" you scold, ignoring his claim. "it's bad luck if you see me before the ceremony."

a faint chuckle floats through the door, and you can practically hear the defensiveness in his voice. "i'm not, i'm not." there's a soft shuffle of movement behind the wood, and you let out a sigh.

"okay, so… i'm a little nervous," you admit, your fingers fiddling with the delicate fabric of your wedding dress. it’s truly beautiful — a dress that your younger self, with her countless pinterest boards, would have been absolutely elated to find.

everything has been perfect so far. satoru made sure of it. but mostly, it’s been perfect because it’s the day you’ve been looking forward to since the moment you met him. there's little that could mess it up, you think, but the stakes still feel incredibly high.

satoru jokes, but you can sense a hint of panic underneath his words. "you're not getting cold feet, are you?"

quick to reassure him, you shake your head, even though he can't see it. "no, 'toru. that's not what i'm worried about. it's more along the lines of, like, tripping down the aisle. what if i trip down the aisle? do you know how mortifying that would be?"

"you're not gonna trip, baby," he snickers, and you're not particularly fond of the amusement he finds in your anxiety. "and if you do, i'll… trip in solidarity."

"in solidarity?" you repeat, scoffing. "seriously? what does that even mean?"

"i'll face-plant alongside you. that way, you won't fall alone. duh."

"okay." a pause, as you tread carefully with your words. "do not do that."

you're sure satoru is pouting on the other side of the door. "why not? isn't that romantic?"

you ignore him, standing up and brushing down your gown, chewing on your bottom lip. "what if it starts raining?"

"does it matter? we're inside."

"oh. right," you mumble, stopping your pacing. "you aren't nervous?"

there's a beat of silence. "no, i'm not. i just want to be married to you already. it's not like i have anything to be scared about, anyway. unless you're planning on running away with my best man?" he kids.

"depends. does geto often have the bright idea to down two cups of coffee before bed and then act surprised when he can't fall asleep until after midnight? and keep me up in the process?"

"point taken. but we make good use of that time, don't we?"

you huff, crossing your arms as heat rises to your cheeks. "shut up."

"hey," he whispers, his knuckles tapping against the door again. "open it."

"what? i can't. it's bad luck," you repeat.

"i know, i know. i'll keep my eyes closed. promise." there's a new softness in his tone, and it has you giving in instantly.

satoru never has to try very hard to convince you of anything. besides, you miss him. it hasn't been long at all, but even the minutes feel like hours, making you ache for his warmth, his touch.

you, a little less than hesitant, pull the door open, and it quietly creaks. your breath catches as soon as you see him, his striking white lashes fluttered shut.

his hair is delicately styled back, held in place with a touch of gel. clad in a perfectly tailored black tie tuxedo, satoru looks absolutely heavenly. your fiancé. your to-be-husband. your soulmate.

he feels for your waist, gently pulling you against his chest, and you melt into his familiar touch. "i just know you look beautiful," he breathes, his voice a low rumble. "i can't wait to see you walk down that aisle."

"i can't wait to walk to that aisle."

he holds you just a little tighter. "i can't wait for you to be my wife."

"ready to get married?" you ask, from the crook of his neck.

oh, he's been ready.

[torueater]

let me have a bite of that

[torueater]

baseball dad satoru

[torueater]

Cowboy gojo❗️

[torueater]

𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐇!

[torueater]

a cute lil guy enjoying his meal with his besties

[torueater]

the head i'd give this man

(art by yamada_souko on twt)

[torueater]

tw periods, slight angst surrounding periods and period typical misogyny, misunderstanding, fluff at the end, a lot of suggestiveness LOL. this is post-canon, after bridgerton!gojo and miss itadori get married

a/n you are warned this is not a drabble this is almost a fic (still a bit short tho) but i was too lazy to make a layout for it

you woke beside your husband, bridgerton!gojo, with a peculiar slickness between your thighs and a slight ache in your joints, particularly that of your lower back.

at once, you knew what it was---your courses. you couldn't help but feel a little disappointment; while you and satoru had only wed recently, your...child bearing efforts had been rigorous. however, it had only been about a fortnight since you had become missus gojo, so it would be reasonable to assume a child was to come in due time.

that is to say, becoming with child was not what was troubling you at all---it was the tangent, irony smell of blood between your thighs, and, if you did not take quick action, it would soon stain your marital bed.

but the biggest worry of all: your husband.

unfortunately, you did not know his...stance about the monthly affliction women face. it was true you felt you could discuss anything with him---after a whole season of fighting like fools, you both had shown each other your most vulnerable parts. however, you were not sure how he would react to the blood that was slowly trickling out of you. would he be disgusted? would he want you to sleep on a seperate bed? the both of you shared your marital bed every night, despite the fact that the gojo manor had many other rooms and one that was formally yours, too.

yet it was not his disgust that you feared most. it was his silence---that he would silently hold back his true feelings of disgust to care for you.

you shook your head. you definitely could not stomach making him bear such responsibility. to be safe, you would distance yourself from him for a couple of days.

looking once more at him, you were relieved to see him sleeping peacefully like a babe next to you. in his slumber, he had wrapped his arms across your waist and buried his head in your chest. as carefully as you could, you unwrapped yourself from his arms and waddled miserably towards the door, and outside, until you found nobara.

after you had debriefed her in your formal room (the one where you were supposed to sleep in, but it had gathered dust nonetheless because satoru would not tolerate distance between you two), she sent a pointed look at you. "you are being ridiculous. that man is a lovesick fool when it comes to you."

"i know he adores me, which is precisely why i do not wish to be close to him during my courses," you mutter back, clutching your stomach and sitting uncomfortably on the bed. "what if he stayed silent about his true sentiments---"

before you could finish, a hesitant knock came on the door and came the voice of your husband. "my love, are you inside?" he sounded concerned, and your heart broke; he must have been confused why you were not by his side when he woke.

then, panic welled inside of you, and you quickly stood up, then immediately shrinked in pain. in a shrill voice came your response: "give me some time, dear, to get dressed!"

then came a confused but brief, "all right," and he obediently stayed outside the door, waiting for you. you hurriedly put on proper attire---not before putting a linen cloth over your crotch to temper the bleeding---and opened the door.

there he was: dressed in a white shirt that was clearly shrugged on in a daze, and pants. it was truly a shame you were resolved to avoid him and any intimate engagement; if it weren't so, you would have dragged him back to your bed for a reenactment of last night.

it seemed that this time of the month had amplified your lust; you were gazing intently at his bare chest and stomach and didn't notice how he had been trying to say something. it was only until he grabbed your hand and started walking that you got out of your reverie. "where are we going?"

"to break our fast," he sighed, looking at you with trace of amusement in his eyes. "it seems that you cannot seem to concieve any words of mine without food in your stomach."

heat creeps up your neck, but you stay silent as he leads you into the drawing room. he sits you down next to him on the couch, and you're so overwhelmed with the heat of his presence that you dizzily sit next to him, while he murmurs things to the maid. it's only until you are alone with him that he pulls you close, onto his lap---you panic once more.

you both have been spending your time as newlyweds at each other's sides; in the morning, he ushers everyone else out of the drawing room and pulls you onto his lap to feed you pastries by hand; during the day, the both of you find some way of keeping each other company, whether it be you reading in the library while he conducts his work or him lazing by your side as you play the pianoforte; at night....every unfortunate being in the manor knows what the both of you do at night.

however, if you were to bleed onto him, forget his reaction; you'd probably offer yourself up to the chef to be cooked for dinner.

your hands remain stiff where they hover in the air, unsure whether to wrap around his shoulders or press against his chest and shove him away. but your legs are already tucked awkwardly to one side, your skirts pooling in your lap and the linen cloth beneath them barely hanging on to dignity.

"now, then," he murmurs, voice low and drowsy, still husky with the vestiges of sleep, "would you care to explain why you vanished on me this morning?"

you stiffen slightly, gaze refusing to meet his. his thumb strokes your back through the fabric of your robe.

“i woke early,” you reply, feebly. “i did not wish to disturb your sleep.”

satoru hums, unconvinced yet concerned. “you were limping.”

your breath hitches.

he lifts his head, ocean eyes narrowing with concern as they search yours. “did I hurt you?” he asks, tone suddenly urgent. “was it last night? I—darling, I swear I never intended—”

“no! no, heavens, no,” you interrupt, pressing your hand over his mouth before he can spiral further. “it's not that. I just—” you trail off, heart pounding.

you feel a trickle escape you and remember that you are still situated on his lap. you jump up, to satoru's dismay, and pat down your skirts in a show of fluster. while you do so, you make sure to peek a glance at satoru's---mind you, very expensive---pants, and let out a sigh in relief when you find they are unmarred with any shade of red.

satoru blinks up at you, visibly startled at your sudden escape from his lap. he sits upright, arms slack at his sides, disheveled and blinking like a dog who had just been denied a treat. “darling?” he calls, voice still rough from sleep. “why did you—?”

“i just remembered—i'm meant to be with nobara,” you blurt hastily, smoothing your skirts once more. “she needed… guidance. On a matter of embroidery.”

he tilts his head, clearly skeptical. “embroidery.”

“yes,” you say, far too quickly. “she's quite hopeless with her stitches, you know.”

satoru gives a soft hum. “i see.” he looks at you pointedly, but says no more.

you nod, all nerves, and inch toward the door with forced casualness. “i'll be back before supper,” you promise, though you plan nothing of the sort. “rest, please. you looked dreadfully tired.”

and with that, you flee.

...

the day drags.

you spend an hour in nobara's company, pacing and muttering until she throws a cushion at your head and tells you, in no uncertain terms, that you’re being idiotic. you ignore her.

you then wander the halls of the gojo manor like a ghost, ducking behind tapestries and pillars the moment you hear your husband’s voice approaching.

at one point, you’re certain he sees the edge of your skirts disappearing up the staircase, because you hear a faint, amused, “hm,” followed by very deliberate footsteps that turn away.

it doesn’t help. the ache in your belly has dulled to a throb, your joints heavy and mood sullen. you've gone through more linen cloths than you care to count, and your back feels like it’s being punished by God himself.

but worse still is the shame coiled in your chest.

you miss him. you miss the warmth of his lap, the rasp of his voice when it’s still tinged with sleep. you miss the way he’d drawn heated circles into your back without even realizing it. and you hate—truly, hate—that you’re keeping something from him.

...

by the time night falls and the clock strikes ten, you’re already curled up in your formal room, not even pretending to be useful. you know, instinctively, that he’ll come.

and he does.

the door creaks open gently, as though he’s trying not to startle you. “are you hiding from me again?” satoru asks softly.

you sit up from your curled position on the chaise, wrapped in a thick shawl. you've no more excuses left in you.

he's dressed in his day's clothes, but his shirt is rumpled and a bit unbuttoned. you wish he'd cover up more, for your unscrupulous eyes were devouring the sigh. he looks tired---but not angry. never angry.

still, you look away. “i didn’t mean to avoid you,” you say, voice faint. “truly, i was a bit occupied today.”

"no, you were avoiding me," he says, without heat. "you are hiding something from me."

you nod, the confession a lump in your throat. “i was.”

satoru sighs and crosses the room, kneeling in front of you. “tell me, darling. please.”

you hesitate, and then meet his eyes. "it's my courses."

he blinks. “Your—oh.” realization dawns in an instant. his brows lift. “that's all?”

you flush. "'that's all'? satoru, i bled onto the sheets today. while you were in it---the smell was pungent! then, at breakfast, i thought i would bleed on your trousers, and i've been waddling all day!"

he makes a move to interrupt, but your shrill voice continues, giving him no opening. "and i've heard how it goes!" you cry, but then your voice quiets, now low in mood. "i just did not you know your feelings on the matter. some husbands don't say anything about it but internally do not take kindly to the display. i thought it perhaps to spare you the discomfort. if you wish, you may sleep alone in the marital bed tonight." you laugh but your hands are quivering, your voice equally shaky. "it is due time that i start sleeping in my designated room, regardless."

there's silence, and you refuse to look at him.

you nod to yourself, eyes burning. "so, please do what you are comfortable with, my dear. i will wholly understand and will draw no resentment from your choice, for it is what you wish."

and still, he says nothing.

you do not look up—not when he pushes off the door, not when you hear his footsteps retreating down the hall. the sound of the door clicking shut behind him cleaves clean through you.

you sit for a moment, frozen.

so that was it, then. he had chosen comfort and distance from you.

and that was fine. that was what you had offered him—wasn’t it?

that was what you wanted, you tell yourself. for him to be comfortable. for him to have the space to choose without pressure or obligation. you didn’t want to burden him with your body’s inconvenient truths, didn’t want to tether him to your pain out of guilt or duty.

you had meant it. you had.

still, like a traitor, your throat tightens. you press a palm against your sternum, as if you could quiet the ache blooming there, deep and hollow and foolish.

you should get ready for bed. blow out the candle. crawl beneath the covers and sleep it off—

the door bursts open.

you startle, eyes flying up—and there he is again, storming in not with coldness or distance, but with purpose.

you blink as he steps towards you—not empty-handed, but with a bundle of linens, something wrapped in muslin, and a small ceramic jar tucked beneath one arm. his expression is unreadable as he walks to your chaise.

he crouches before you, silent.

then: he unravels the cloth and reveals a warmed compress, gently pressing it to your lower abdomen with a care that nearly undoes you. his hands are sure, practiced. the pressure soothes more than you can say.

next comes the jar—some ancient concoction for cramping and pain, herbal and bittersweet in scent. he rubs a dab into your wrists, then into your temples, then—when you remain frozen in stunned silence—cups your jaw, brushing a knuckle along your cheek.

“is this allowed?” he murmurs.

you nod, too stunned to speak.

he lets out a slow breath and says, “you absolute goose.”

your lips tremble. “I thought—when you left—”

“i went to the warming stone cupboard, you little fool.” his tone is fond now, teasing, like he can’t bear to let you spiral any further. “you think I’d leave you bleeding and aching and miserable just to have a soft bed to myself?”

you shake your head, and he leans in to press a kiss to your brow.

"i married you, mrs. gojo," he teases, the same way he used to say miss itadori when the both of you were at odds. "do you think i could bear to know nothing about your body with you as my wife? or, heavens forbid, sleep alone in our bed? i knew eventually you would be curled up in my bed, looking cross and adorable while i play nursemaid." he

your eyes brim. "i'm sorry."

“you're forgiven, my love,” he says easily. “on one condition.”

you blink. “What?”

“that you stop hiding from me. i'm your husband. i'd much rather hold you while you’re bleeding than miss you while you’re gone.”

you give a watery laugh. “You make it sound so poetic.”

“i am a romantic at heart.” he stands, then scoops you effortlessly into his arms. “now come. we are going to our bed. i've fluffed the pillows, and you’re going to let me dote on you until you beg me to stop.”

you cling to him, heart light for the first time all day.

[torueater]

SUITED UP.ᐟ - KENTO NANAMI

“Is this really necessary?”

He’s bent on one knee fixing the edges of your newest dress suit like a fussy stylist. Tailored just to your shape and height, snug where it needs to be. Never mind the perfectly fine suits still unworn from the last time he’d gotten some tailor made. Blues matching blues, sandy hues matching sandy hues. Nothing screamed ‘married coworkers’ like tacky matching outfits, right?

It’s so out of character that it still has your head spinning because this isn’t even the first matching set he’d done. The last time could be written off, navy and black suits were common work attire colors – but the pinstripe? The pocket squares that match his ties?

It’s your third matching outfit of this quarter, you’ve officially ran out of excuses to tell yourself.  “Baby, everyone’s gonna look at us crazy again.”

He hums, like he’s only half-listening, too busy smoothing out a non-existent wrinkle near your shoulder. "But you said you liked this colour.”

“On you, yes. I love this colour on you.” The comment had not at all been an invitation to drag you into his antics.

“And I like it on you.” Nanami rises to full height to fiddle with the lapels of your suit, thumbing the smoothness of the expensive fabric, lifting his gaze to you. “You weren’t against the fitting.”

“The fitting that you filled me in on when we were already 2 minutes to the place?”

“Minor details.” He says in return, waving a hand in an empty motion before dipping to kiss your forehead. “Looks perfect. Look.” His hands lower to skim the edges of the suit that taper at your waist, spinning you to face your reflection. “Should’ve started doing this sooner, honestly.”

Despite your apparent disinclination, you can admit (grudgingly!) that the fits looked good together. Not the exact same shades this time, but complimenting each other embarrassingly well – almost like puzzle pieces that are made to fit together. You catch him eyeing you in the mirror, all sharp-eyed, smile satisfied in a way that makes your stomach do a little flip. “Does this make you that happy?”

“Oh, extremely. I’m elated. You look beautiful.”

Keep-work-and-personal-life-private Nanami, mind you. Over-the-top displays are tacky Nanami, mind you. Polite and professional Nanami that now looks at you like you hung the moon yourself.

You wonder if your past self would look at you like you had two heads if you told her that you’d be married to the intimidating man that had sat across from you in your first meeting working for the company. That he’d someday put a shiny ring on your finger, custom made based on things you’d brought up in passing. That he’d be fitting you in suits matching his with no care for how ‘corny’ it might seem.

“You’re so silly,” you huff, turning to face him again, own hands lifting to toy with his tie, tightening the knot, “What happened to the man that hated tacky displays?”

"He married you," Kento says without missing a beat, shrugging. Lengthy fingers find your waist, tugging you in until your chest bumps his. "and now he has far better things to prioritize." His head dips to bump your forehead against his lightly, "Plus, it's not corny when we do it."

You huff out a breath, fighting the building heat in your cheeks as you pick at invisible lint on his shoulder. Suit’s far too new, too crisp to even have a singular ball of lint but it helps with the bashfulness that had washed over you. “So silly.” you repeat, biting the soft inside of your cheek to stop your growing smile. “I miss boring Nanami.” Though, he hadn’t ever really been boring, not really. Maybe more reserved, stoic – but never boring. He entertained you plenty, you seemed to like his humor and antics far more than anyone else. You wonder if you should’ve taken the whimsical little cheetah tie as a sign.

His hand smooths down your head in a soothing gesture like some small, pitiful creature. “I think you’re lying to yourself.”

Which, you are, of course. You secretly love the corny matching suits that he gets for you and how they’re practically a way to stake claim. How it’s his way of showing you off in a…not so subtle way. He also just likes seeing you in suits, quite a bit. It’s cute – not that you’d tell him that. “Perhaps.”

Your chin presses up against the front of his suit jacket, head tilted up just enough to look at him, “Is this going to be a common occurrence? Will we be matching socks and shoes soon as well?” “Oh, definitely not.” he says in answer, idle hands tugging at your jacket to settle it, smoothing it out just one more time. “That’s going a bit too far, a little tacky.”

Drawing the line at matching socks and shoes but not at entire matching suits…never a dull moment with him, really. “Far, far too tacky. just the worst, I agree.”

“Exactly, we’re on the same page here.” he hums, “There are limits.”

Matching briefcases would be cute, though.

a/n: never opening pinterest again! nanami in a suit isn't good for my health.