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As your body grew and changed to accommodate another life, you noticed your husband changing too.
Sure, Gojo Satoru wasn’t exactly what you’d call husband material. He wasn’t exactly the kiss-you-out-the-door type, not exactly the breakfast-in-bed type, but he was your husband. Sure, your marriage was not something born from love, but you didn’t hate each other, as most people would expect when they heard the words “arranged” and “marriage” in one sentence.
Your marriage was no biggie, really. This was one of the easiest sacrifices you’ve had to make in your sad, sorry lives. You made it gladly. It was hard to complain about marrying Gojo when the world had gone to shit for so long. You daresay you had bigger fish to fry.
Besides, he wasn’t that bad looking.
Marry each other. Play genetic Russian roulette. Pop out a new pillar for the jujutsu world to stand on. That was the plan and you were fine with it. Most people balked at the idea of arranged marriages, especially the eugenicist ones, but in a world where everyone you loved was either dead or dying, your marriage with Gojo was nothing short of a relief.
As your husband’s old kouhai so wisely said: Jujutsu sorcerers are absolute shit. Jujutsu sorcerers are nothing but sandbags laid down at the front lines, holding the darkness back so the lucky ones can live in clueless bliss. You lived in perfect knowledge of this, and once upon a time you cried yourself to sleep every night, mourning your fate.
You had grown out of that embarrassing phase. Your momma ain't raised no bitch.
Sorcerers can cook and sing and dance and do whatever they want. Sorcerers can level acres of land and save the world and wield awesome powers.
The one thing they couldn’t do was lead normal lives.
What do those gamer kids say again?
LOL, NOOB.
Jujutsu sorcerers don’t bother to dream of families. They don’t bother to dream dreams of a white picket fence and two Golden Retrievers. What’s the point? You’d be too dead for those anyway. Hunter and Goldie would have to go up for adoption, the poor things.
In a world where everyone you loved was either dead or dying and you were soon to follow, your marriage with Gojo was nothing short of a relief.
Because Gojo Satoru was the one blessed enough, or cursed if you really thought about it, to live.
The infallible pillar of the jujutsu world. Achilles. Hercules. Jesus Christ if he had white hair and blue eyes and was more of an asshole. The one that would never fall.
And you became his wife. You would be one of the luckier ones, because being a widow was not on your horizon.
At least not yet.
Marriage was just one more thing crossed off your list. At least now you had someone, even if only on paper. At least you’d have companionship. At least you'd get some arm candy to ward off overbearing aunts at family functions. At the very least, Gojo was your friend.
What you didn’t expect was for him to become such a good one.
You didn’t even get a big white wedding. No, you just sat on your ass in a dim room for the better part of two hours. No bridal bouquet, just a pen, still warm from his hand. Just your name signed beside his in a quiet room. No kiss in front of a cheering crowd, just clan elders sitting motionless in a circle around you. No white wedding, just two hours of somber faces and back pain.
It was way worse than a damn funeral. At least you had plenty of practice with those.
Ironic, really, that the only comfort you had in your miserable arranged wedding was your equally miserable arranged husband. From time to time, he’d elbow your ribs. You’d make faces at him. He would give you one of his crooked grins, all teeth and no propriety. The elders would mutter angrily among themselves at that. His grins always grew wider.
Fuck ‘em, it’s our wedding, isn’t it?
You blinked comically large doe eyes at him, and his eyes flicked teasingly up to your big white fukoro obi, meant to symbolize a wife’s submission to her husband.
Yeah, sure. Okay.
In years to come, you wouldn’t even remember the date of your shitty wedding.
What you would remember is a pair of sky blue eyes glowing softly in the dark. You would remember his nails scratching softly at the small of your back, when you whispered to him how badly your shiro-muku itched.
Gojo would be the one to remember the date, but he would remember more than that.
He'd die before he admits it to you, but what Gojo would remember from his shitty wedding was the sound of you sighing softly when he scratched your back. He had known your shiro-muku itched like crazy. What he would remember was the sardonic glint in your eyes even as your face ran smooth. He would remember you biting your lip at him when he not-so-discreetly pinched your ass. One elder had caught it. His eyes had bulged so far out of his head that you’d think they’d fall to the floor. For a horrible minute yours and Gojo's eyes were filled with tears, your faces turning red with the effort of stifling your laughter. It had taken every bit of his good breeding to not fall to the floor with a fit of giggles, because he knew you’d join him and the both of you would never be able to stop.
Wouldn’t that make a good story? Gojo Satoru’s wedding, yes, the Gojo Satoru, had to be cancelled because the bride and groom couldn’t stop laughing. They had to be carried away in stretchers, imagine!
What he would remember, the fondest memory of them all, was lifting the sakazuki to his face, already dreading the taste of bitter ceremonial sake. It was always the worst.
Fizzy sweetness had filled his mouth. There was no bitterness in his cup.
You had replaced the sake with cherry coke.
What you would both remember, once memory fails, was how having each other made the feeling of throwing your life away just a bit more bearable.
It was better that way. God knows how many bullets would be coming for you if you had made a big deal about it and chose a Western-style wedding. Sure, the world needed another Gojo, but it doesn’t mean people wanted another Gojo.
You weren’t so anonymous either. You didn’t belong to any fancy clan, but you were a household name in the jujutsu world, and now you were God Incarnate’s wife. Half the jujutsu world would have a stroke if they’d heard about you and Gojo making even more white-haired, all-powerful babies: combinations of him and you. The other half would throw Molotovs into your bedroom window.
Also, think of the goddamn groupies. He may have calmed down but they sure didn’t. Everyone wanted a taste of the world’s most powerful being, and it didn’t help that he looked good enough to eat.
You were beyond thankful that Gojo had at least grown out of his tomcatting phase. Even now, he would joke to you about it, how it had taken all of his friends and half his students dying just for him to realize that oh, so pussy won’t actually fill the deep, gaping void in my heart? D’aww.
Yes, that was verbatim. Gojo Satoru’s life was so pathetically miserable that he found it hilarious. He had lucked out for once, because you were the type to laugh along with him, because you know...
What is comedy, but tragedy given time?
Some people would sprint away at the idea of an arranged marriage, and you used to as well. You both did. The promise of lifelong loyalty creeped the shit out of him, and even more so for you.
But then again, it made perfect sense. You couldn’t love for shit, and the only person he’s ever loved had died long ago, so what was the point? This marriage was convenient, because you both had no patience for that getting-to-know-you crap. You both had commitment issues, so they cancelled out, right? It was like PEMDAS.
And even though your shiro-moko represented purity, well…
You’d fucked every night for a week before the wedding, two weeks and a half after you’d been formally introduced to each other. You had fucked, if nothing else, because Gojo could do anything except wait, and you could do anything except make him.
And it felt real peachy whenever his elders almost popped a collective vein whenever they saw you, because you always fucked in his family manor and Gojo wasn’t exactly quiet.
Now, now. Just because you didn’t love each other didn’t mean the sex wasn’t absolutely mind-blowing.
It was funny, really, because you were married in all senses of the word but were, as far as you were both concerned, just best friends who fucked sometimes. It was a known fact that he was unable to love anyone. Maybe because the only person he’s ever loved fucked him up like nobody else. Maybe because he was fucked up right from the start.
Maybe because you were both fucked up. PEMDAS, right?
So of course the sex was really good.
Match made in heaven, the both of you. Compatible mental issues and compatible kinks? I’ll be damned.
So now, lying alone in your bed, you wondered where’d you’d gone wrong.
Because Gojo didn’t sleep in the same bed anymore, he hasn’t for a month.
You’ve always had separate rooms, but the oversized child you'd married loved cuddles, so you alternated between each other’s quarters. Your marriage was like some sort of glorified sleepover, and now he had decided to end the little tradition.
You had a feeling you knew why.
What happened to pussy not filling the void in your heart, beloved husband of mine?
It’s not like you didn’t satisfy him, or at least not to the best of your knowledge. It didn’t take long for him to knock you up, him with his breeding kink and the stamina of ten stallions. He gave you a year’s freedom at least, dragging you all over the world, buying you enough Chanel and Louis Vuitton and Hermès to end all poverty in Japan. Even now you had a Cartier piece on your neck, expensive enough to feed a small village. Your husband liked pretty things, and he liked them most when they were on you.
When the elders grew impatient, he finally took you to the doctor and got your IUD tossed. The rest was history, and a short one, because you’d fucked like a pair of rabbits, him and that stupid breeding kink keeping you in bed for days at end.
Now he hasn't touched you for weeks.
In the one and roughly more than a half year you have been together, Gojo hasn’t failed you yet. He wasn’t in love with you, but he seemed determined to do right by you. It had grown more intense when he had finally gotten you pregnant.
There was no picking you up and spinning you around like in the movies. There was only a solemn nod between you two, cramped in a fast food restaurant where you’d finally taken the pregnancy test. There was no exclamation of joy, no ecstatic I'm gonna be a dad!
This child was for the world to celebrate, not his parents who knew what would become of him. It's the greatest responsibility, the heaviest burden you two would ever have. This child is a promise and a challenge and the closest thing to love you'd both have.
Because you want your child to be a better you.
And you know he wants it even more.
So for the whole six months of your pregnancy, you watched Gojo Satoru, who’s only ever been Gojo Satoru, change. Gojo was always a closeted control freak, but it had gone up a hundred notches by the time you had to up your jean size.
The food you ate was never healthy enough. The house with about twenty servants and ten guards was never safe enough. You were never sleeping enough. You were always working too hard. Fourth-grades were already too dangerous for you, and he’d all but have a stroke when so much as a flyhead came into a fifty-mile radius of you.
The worst thing was, you had thought one night with a morbid little giggle, was that he didn’t even have any friends left to take him out for a breather.
And as for you, you didn’t even get a baby shower, simply because your preparations halted when you realized your guest list would have zero names on it. At least the names you’d care to see. You had laughed it off, when you dumped your notepad into the trash. It had guest list written on the top. Nothing followed. You had laughed when you chucked it. It was for the best anyway, baby showers aren’t traditional in Japan. Silly me, you giggled to yourself.
You had cried yourself to sleep for three nights later.
What the fuck is comedy, right?
Gojo noticed this, and did a little snooping in the trash one night after you fell asleep.
You woke the next morning with pastel balloons covering every inch of his giant bedroom. Your breakfast was a blue cake shaped like a baby bootie.
You had thanked him with a frosting-covered kiss. He ruffled your hair. He surprised you with a gaudy Balmoral Pram and an oath muttered crudely around a mouthful of cake.
“I’ll do this right, I promise you."
Your fifteen million-yen wedding was worth nothing next to that.
From that day, you watched him change, not just the house and the food and his treatment of you, but himself too. For example, Gojo lived and breathed attention, and whenever he got the call for an exorcism he’d do it just to put on a show. And a show it would be, because there was nothing more spectacular than Gojo Satoru on the battlefield.
Now he fought different, and the last time he allowed you on a mission the fight was over in a minute, and not a single window pane in the haunted building had so much as a crack on it. He’d all but carried you out and back home.
Pregnancy books popped up in the oddest corners of your house. You noticed him amping up his workout routines. An empty cabinet in the hallways was now filled to the brim with cursed weapons you’ve never seen him care much for. It had about thirty baby-proof locks. The most secure lock of all? It was in a different dimension.
Once, with your eyes bugging out of your head, you saw him bow politely to Gakuganji during a meeting.
If you were anyone else, you’d be annoyed beyond belief.
But you knew why he was changing, and if you thought too much about it you’d fall to the floor and cry your eyes out, and then he would notice, and he’d get even worse.
If you thought too much about it, you’d fall in love with him, and what the fuck would you do then?
So you let him change. You let him shove chia seeds and kale down your throat. You let him organize prenatal pills in little pill organizers shaped like fruit slices. He'd gotten them from a Daiso. You let him walk you diligently around the grounds, for sunlight and a stretch to strengthen the pelvic floor. You listened to him drone on and on about epidurals and birth doulas. You didn’t say a word when one day he walked in dragging an absolutely humongous battle axe and hung it up in the living room. He was scratching your hardwood floors. He’d secured it with a hundred screws and some magic. Only he would be able to take it down. You noticed little flakes of brown on the blade.
The brutal red clashed against your cream couch. It was an absolute eyesore.
The next day, you bought a Persian rug to compliment it. He had winked at you as you laid it down.
“Nice.”
You gave a pleased huff. “Thanks. It really brings out the bloodstains.”
He laughed, and pulled you close with a casual arm on your shoulder. He’s been doing a lot of that lately. Touching you. Sometimes, he would do it absently. Just to see if you were still here with him. In the privacy of your own home it was almost unnoticeable, but in public, in Jujutsu Tech, in his ancestral home?
He might as well have you handcuffed to him. He’d start whining like the manchild he was when you so much as got up to go to the bathroom, and he’d click his tongue whenever someone looked at you and your growing belly the wrong way.
Everyone else, especially the sorcerers, picked up on this. Your husband didn’t need to speak to be listened to. Everyone fucked with him, and he fucked with everyone, but the moment he’d so much as slip his blindfold down, everyone would duck for cover.
You would play along, slapping his arm and smiling apologetically at everyone for his attitude.
But we all know the truth.
You loved it.
You’d like to think of yourself as a feminist, but damn if him acting like a caveman didn’t put butterflies into your stomach. It would take all of you and then some to not preen under his protection, like one of those haughty matrons you sat with during clan meetings.
And it was just the cherry on top whenever some young pretty window would give him bedroom eyes, and all you needed to do was sigh softly for him to immediately come to you and put a hand on your belly, murmuring a soft you good? Want me to get you anything?
The little bitches would always roll their eyes at you, walking away with their noses in the air and their tails between their legs. You’d always give them a self-satisfied little smile. Gojo would play along and wrinkle his nose at your pettiness, but you’d know he was laughing at you behind the blindfold.
He loved it.
Then why? Why did it seem to you like he’s gone back to bad habits?
Did you turn him off in some way?
You weren’t the jealous type, but old insecurities cropped up at your thoughts. You’d like to think you didn't look that bad. With you cooped up in the house, you’d spent your time doing cardio and acquiring an addiction to skin care. Under Mother Hen Gojo’s care, you’ve never been healthier.
You looked up at the mirror on the ceiling, on top of your bed. It was there to cater to your husband’s vanity and a little bit to yours.
You did gain a handful of pounds, maybe more, but that was to be expected. You were pregnant, not gearing up for the damn runway. Your hips have grown a little wider over the past few months. Your breasts and ass had also grown a little heavier. Your cheeks were rounder, and your jaw a little bit softer.
You weren’t too worried about it. Cheating death made for a good daily workout, so you were confident that you’d be back in shape in no time doing sorcerer work. If not, well, Gojo’s personal gym was worth half a million yen. It’d do the trick. And if not, it didn’t really matter. You weren't here to be a plastic trophy wife.
Then why? Why did Gojo make up excuses to sleep on the couch? Or get up in the middle of the night to sleep in his own room? Or sleep in “Jujutsu Tech for a stakeout” and come home in the morning without a single apology?
Disappointment flooded you. You knew you had no hold over Gojo except on paper, but you’d hoped he would at least honor your marriage. You’d think he would be better than the other men in the three clans, with their beautiful harems and miserable wives.
And you never really thought of him as the type to be put off by a little padding or some stretch marks. How disappointing.
You’d confront him soon enough anyway, because speaking of stretch marks…
“And if you like piña coladas..."
You heard him before you saw him, and despite yourself you smile at the sound of him singing the ridiculous elevator song that’s been stuck in his head for about two weeks now.
“And getting caught in the rain...”
You laid still, your back turned to the door even as it opened. It closed softly, and the sound of a something hitting a table filled the room, barely carrying over the sound of Gojo’s obnoxious singing.
“If you’re not into yoga, something something brain..."
You held your breath and bit your lip. That’s not how the song goes, dumbass.
“If you like makin’ love at midnight—” The bag rustles. "In the dunes on the I don’t fucking know what comes next please turn around I have your cocoa butter oooh—”
“Okay, okay,” you whined, turning to face him. “Anyone told you it’s rude to wake up a pregnant woman?”
“Bullshit, you were wide awake.”
You huffed and sat up as a weight pressed down on the mattress. It was Gojo, grinning at you, all teeth and not a single thought in his head. In his hands was a jar of Palmer’s cocoa butter, imported from the west, just as you requested. You told him at dinner that you’d ran out, and faster than lightning he’d offered to buy some for you.
Maybe some sorcerers could afford a Golden Retriever. Sure, yours had white hair and spoke Japanese, but that's just because he's special.
Now he was here, in your bed, with you wearing his Cartier necklace and a sheer white nightgown. Your panties were, sure as day, a pretty sky blue.
You wondered if you had laid it on too thick. For sure he would pick up on how it was a bit too much of a coincidence that you had told him you’d run out of cocoa butter right before you went to bed, and that now you were wearing his favorite colors. Blue and white. He was a slut for you wearing his palette.
If he did notice, he didn’t say anything. His silence was a green light, and green means go.
“Thanks, Gojo. Open it for me? My hands are kind of swollen.”
They’re not.
“Sure thing, Gojo.” You giggled nervously as he teased you with your new last name. Right, we’re both Gojos now. Can’t seem to get used to the idea.
Then he hesitated just as the cap unscrewed completely. The sweet smell of cocoa filled the air. For a moment the room was silent.
Then he spoke up, hesitantly.
“Want me to do it for you?”
Gotcha.
“You won’t mind?” You wiggled closer to him, only to put a mocking hand on his forehead. “Why are you being so nice? You sick or something?”
He slapped your hand away, shuffling on his knees to sit himself closer to you. “Shut up, I’m always nice.”
You rolled your eyes back. “Sure.”
He took a deep breath, and once more trepidation curled in your gut.
But he didn’t waver. He set the jar of butter down, and slowly pushed your nightgown up.
His nostrils flared at the sight of you wearing only your underwear, half-naked and heavy with his child.
But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t do anything. He looked for all the world like he was perfectly content to be scooping out cocoa butter, lathering it all over your stretched stomach.
A nasty piece of doubt curls in your gut. You open your mouth to say something. You close it without speaking.
He picks up on the shift in the air. For such a huge himbo, he was perceptive as all hell.
“Does this really help with the stretch marks?” He rubs small circles just above your belly button. The aftershocks travel straight down. He picks up on that too and shoots you a warning glance. You don’t see it through the blindfold.
“Yep,” you replied, popping your P. “You should try it on your ass.”
He gasped at that. “I do not have stretch marks on my ass!”
“If you like, squint, there’s the tiniest little—”
“My ass cheeks are smoother than your face, thank you very much.”
It was your turn to gasp. “How dare you, Gojo! I’m the most beautiful thing in the world.”
He hums at that. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but it sounded like he might be agreeing.
A little flustered, you scratch self-consciously at your cheek.
He rolls his eyes so hard you can see it through the blindfold. “I was kidding, Ms. Pregnancy Hormones.”
“Don’t start with that,” you groaned. “I really don’t want any hormone jokes coming out of you. They’re misogynistic, Gojo.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He gave you a mock salute. He left a fleck of cocoa butter on his temple. “Bet you’re glad you married into the Gojo clan instead of the Zen’ins, huh?”
“Oh my God, am I ever.” You dived eagerly into the gossip. “Did you hear about how that Naoya dude treats his wife? Horrendous.”
“Absolutely,” Gojo nodded a little too enthusiastically for one of the most respected sorcerers in the country. “I heard he walked out of a Roppongi brothel with two girls on his arm, on their anniversary, no less."
He put a conspiratorial hand up to his mouth, whispering like a 1950s housewife. "I hope she puts arsenic in his coffee.”
You snorted at that. He pinched your cheek.
You egged him on. “Belladonna would do the trick, or maybe some of that Aqua Tofana shit I’ve seen on Netflix.”
He gave you a look.
“So, should I start watching my drinks, or...”
His hand moved to the right side of your belly, a little closer to where your breasts curved softly against your rucked up nightgown. His presence was and always is comforting, and for a moment you forgot your scheme.
The moment passed, and it’s time to pounce on your might-be-might-not-be unfaithful husband.
You smiled sweetly at him. “I don’t know, Gojo, should you?”
He scoffed at you. “Of course not. You know there’ll never be anyone else now.”
Your face warmed up again. This was getting ridiculous. Seriously, what wife would be flustered at their husband admitting the loyalty they’d signed up for?
You, apparently.
Gojo continued his dejected muttering. “And I’ve never raised a hand at you, except for those times I absolutely wrecked you at sparring.”
He poked your belly. “Can’t wait to spar with you again, once this one gets out of there.”
Gojo was oblivious to the way tears prickled slightly at your eyes, excitement and affection swelling inside of you. His words travelled down your throat to squeeze at your heart. They come with no warning. Maybe he was right about the hormones. He certainly had enough pregnancy manuals to know.
He keeps talking. “And speaking of the little one, I already have a list of babysitters, no—” He waves off your upcoming protests. “Let me finish, yeah? I know you wanna be one of those hands-on mothers or whatever they call that in the books, but I’d feel better if you had some extra hands helping you.”
He doesn’t give you a chance to speak. Gojo loved the sound of his own voice, and maybe you loved it as much as he did. You listened to him, admiring his fingers on your stomach, warming up the butter.
“So, yeah. Let’s look over the applications tomorrow so we can start spying on them.”
Your head whipped up. “Wha— Spying on them?”
“Yep,” he nods popping his P. "Spying on them. Background checks aren’t good enough. We gotta be sure.”
Jeez, paranoid much?
He saw the look on your face, and cheekily blew on your face. You blinked at the cool stream of air.
“Don’t look at me like that. Don’t want someone pulling any shit on you when I’m not around.”
No use arguing with Mr. Mother Hen over here. You played along, spoiled wife that you are. “How many of them do we get? Can I have two?”
He cocked his head to the side. “Two? I was thinking more like five.”
You gasped. "Five? Gojo, we already have twelve maids! You’re paying them to what, do nothing all day?”
He raises a buttery hand. “Alright, alright. Four, but we need more baby monitors.”
“Oh my God,” you huff. “Okay, but you’re paying.”
He grinned. “Of course I’m paying. I did this to you, didn’t I?”
His smile was teasing as he patted your bulging stomach, and the corners of his mouth twisted up softly. His smile was a bit crooked, as it always was when he was too sincere to remember to keep it straight. All teeth and no lies.
Your heart lurched painfully in your chest at the sight of him bent over your baby bump, hands soft on your skin, a self-satisfied, adoring little smile on his face.
This baby gets so much as a mosquito bite and my husband will burn down Japan, on God.
Your affection fizzed inside you, like a soda can that had been opened too quickly. It overflowed and spilled, and you found your hand reaching for his forehead. You wiped away the speck of cocoa butter.
Your hands joined his on your belly. For a moment you were both silent, marvelling once more at the life that came from him and you.
You weren’t philosophers, but it was strange, how every decision the both of you had ever made in your life led you here, in his bed, a tiny, half-formed human now the center of both your worlds.
Gojo Satoru, God himself come down to Earth in the shape of a man.
You.
And now this baby, half of both.
On some days, it would fill you with a giddy sense of joy, the thought of a miniature Gojo Satoru safe in your arms, happier than his father ever will be. Some days it fills you with indescribable sadness, at the thought of this child having everything you wished you had. Some days it would fill you with a fiery determination to make the world just a bit better than yesterday.
But most days, you felt like Atlas holding up the weight of the world.
Your husband felt it too. He’s been Atlas his whole damn life, and now he had a child to fight for. You could only wish he'd let you carry the weight with him. You'd take it all if you could.
Melancholy filled the air, and you pressed closer to him, hoping for some warmth. He drew closer too, and soon enough his head is on your chest and your face is in his hair.
But Infinity only protects against the corporeal. It doesn’t keep away the bitterness that followed you everywhere you went. It sits on your skin, from the tips of your toes to the ends of your hair. You could only hope it would wait for a little while before it touches the baby.
He murmured against your skin. “Penny for your thoughts?”
“I want a little more than a penny, Gojo.”
He laughed, and with a suddenness that pooled heat in your belly he pulls on the Cartier with his teeth, leaning away to look you in the eye. The gold chain dangled from his mouth when he grits out:
“Alright, you spoiled brat. Another Cartier for your thoughts then. Go on.”
Here goes nothing.
“Why don’t we have sex anymore, Gojo?”
The necklace dropped from his mouth. It fell cold on your skin.
“Aw, is this what you want?” He sighs dramatically. “Have I, your husband, been neglecting your body’s desires? Well fret not, beloved wife—” Your heart jumps at that. “I’ve got you.”
You tried to stop him, you really did, but he was now kissing you.
You liked to tell yourself that this was purely biological, the dizzying attraction you felt for him. That’s what he tells himself too.
And he knows all too well how he reacts to biology, he’s hoped you wouldn’t notice for a little longer, but you’d picked up on it incredibly fast. Now here you were, soft and smelling like cocoa under him, pregnant with his child.
He gasped and pulled away. Just make her cum and you’re good to jerk off in the shower.
His lips moved down, down, to your throat. He bit softly. He pushed the nightgown farther up, just to latch his mouth on one soft breast. You whined. He keeps you still. His tongue carved lines in soft flesh, around one hard nipple and the other.
He moved down, pressing a soft kiss on your belly, round and swollen with his kid, his son.
His heir.
Gojo’s heart melts in his chest, dripping around his ribcage, falling softly to pool warmth in his gut.
With his heart all melted and his cock as hard as diamonds, he knows he’s running out of time. With a bit of desperation, he moves lower still, until his breath blows cool on a wet patch on your panties.
Faster, move faster before she notices.
He sneaks a look up at you. Your eyebrows are all scrunched up, lip caught between your teeth.
His cock twitches at the sight. He looks back down. With another adoring kiss below your belly button, he pulls your panties off, slowly, admiring the string of slick clinging to the fabric.
Blue, his favorite, the same shade as his eyes. I know what you’re doing, you little devil.
Having you as his wife is the easiest thing in the world, but damn if you didn’t love making things hard for him.
Literally and figuratively.
You looked down at him, waiting to see what he’d do. But something was wrong. You reached down and pulled the blindfold off. It should have been off ages ago.
He smirked up at you. You gave him a nervous smile. “Hi.”
“Yo,” he winked a breathtaking blue eye at you. “Now let me take care of you, yeah?”
And take care of you he did. His mouth latched wet and warm on your cunt, and you writhed under him.
But something was off.
Even as his tongue traced maddening circles into your clit, something was off.
His finger slipped inside you, then one became two became three, and pretty soon he was fucking you on his hand.
Something’s wrong, something’s wrong.
Your hips grinded on his face, and he moaned appreciatively. He was slipping. He noticed, too late, that his hips were grinding on the mattress, hungry for some friction on his aching cock.
Make her cum then get out.
So he worked you, just how you liked it. He licked up and down your cunt, his eyes rolling back at the wet, soft feeling of you rubbing on his tongue. It would be enough to get him off as he rubbed one out later, it was close enough to the feeling of his cock sliding into you, in and out and in and out—
He moaned, and it sounded like he was in pain. He hoped you wouldn’t notice. You did.
“Gojo, wait up—” You pleaded with him. It was half-hearted at best. You didn't have much room in you except for the feeling of him switching it up, his fingers pulling out of you to pinch your clit, and his tongue sliding home in your cunt.
“Oh, fuck!” Your hips were moving around too much for him to follow with his hands, and he was too afraid to even hold you, so he let you grip his hair and grind on his tongue, his hands falling uselessly to the side. He gripped the sheets just for something to hold on to.
He groaned when your cunt fluttered around his outstretched tongue. It was so close to his cock but so fucking far. You pulled him closer, smothering him in you. He pressed his hips deeper into the mattress like a horny teenager.
His nose pressed into your clit, and that was it for you.
You keened as you came, still rocking against him. He moaned right along with you, eyes wide, greedily drinking in the sight of you falling apart for him. It would be enough to tide him over for weeks. He wouldn’t need to even touch you.
When your hips finally stilled on the bed, he pulled away, grinning. “Happy, now?”
You swallowed weakly, throat dry. “No.”
He laughed. He was losing his mind. “Another, then.”
“Stop,” you whined. “Stop, I—”
His face changed in an instant. “What? Are you hurt? Shit, shouldn't have let you move around too much. C’mere, tell me—”
“What the fuck was that, you asshole?”
His voice shriveled up and died in his throat. He had been caught.
Still red and shaky from your orgasm, you glared up at him. “What the fuck, Gojo? That wasn’t what I wanted.”
Maybe he could still salvage this. “Well, looks to me you kinda wanted it. You almost suffocated me—”
“Get out, Gojo. Get out of my room.”
He was prepared for the anger in your voice. He was prepared for you to cuss him out and maybe even hit him, even if you never did.
What he wasn’t prepared for was the tears in your eyes, tears and a world of hurt.
“But— this is my room.” His response echoed lamely in the room.
“Fine,” you said. “I’ll leave.”
Your pride wounded and your heart stinging with rejection, you didn’t even bother to retrieve your underwear. You got off the bed, stalking angrily towards the door, only to walk into your towering brick wall of a husband.
“Get out of the way, Gojo. I’m going to bed. Thanks for getting me off.”
“You’re welcome,” he said back. “But why are you crying?”
“I don’t know, why don’t you go look it up in How to Take Care of Your Pregnant Wife Volume 8?”
He rolled his eyes. “It only goes up to Volume 7, smartass.”
You glared back at him. “I stand corrected. Now get out of my way.”
“No.”
“What do you mean no? Move, Gojo, I swear to God—”
“What’s this really about?”
“What’s what about, Gojo?”
“You know what I mean. The necklace. You don’t wear jewelry to bed, you know better than that. The nightgown? The panties? You might as well have had “fuck me” written on your forehead.”
Ah, the joys of married life. Nothing like your husband slut-shaming you while his face was still wet from your cunt.
He pushed a bit more. “What’s this about, hm? You know you only have to ask.”
You know you only have to ask.
When your face fell into a smooth, blank, mask, Gojo realized he’d chosen his words wrong.
“Why, of course.” Your voice had taken on that pitch, a few octaves higher than normal. “Of course, Gojo. All I had to do was ask you. All I had to do was be all come hither to my beloved husband that hasn’t even been sleeping in the same room with me for three weeks now! Silly me, of course all I had to do was fucking ask, right? Right?”
Gojo’s mind wandered to the battle axe just a few floors down. With you spitting at him like an enraged badger, it wasn’t so hard for him to imagine you lifting it over your head and swinging it at him.
Horrible timing. The image of you, pregnant, in your nightgown, tits hanging free and no panties, swinging an axe twice your size pushed a laugh out of his throat.
Horrible timing. Horrible, horrible. The worst.
You looked kind of crazy when you spoke again. “Oh, you think I’m funny? You think I’m fucking funny? Wow, thank you, glad you find me real fucking funny, Gojo. Let’s laugh it up for Ms. Pregnancy Hormones that’s going crazy because her husband’s been sleeping around and she’s left to finger herself in the shower just to get by! Fucking funny, isn’t it?”
All the laughter drains out of Gojo’s face, along with all its color.
“You think I’ve been sleeping around?”
Getting your point across calmed some of your anger, but only a little. “No shit, Sherlock. You’re back at it and I’m just a real good punchline, aren’t I? Good little wife, thinking you’ve changed.”
In the short time you’ve been married, Gojo hasn’t quite figured you out yet. He still underestimates you in some parts, and overestimates you in others. This is an example.
He doesn’t touch you anymore, but not for the reason you think. He assumed you’d clue in on it, what with the way he’s been absolutely neurotic during your pregnancy.
He was wrong. You didn’t. Who would have thought that his silly, dense, arranged wife that didn’t even love him, would blow up because in your silly, dense head, he was cheating?
Okay, so maybe your accusations weren’t entirely implausible, but Gojo wasn’t like that anymore. He’d grown sick of silly flings a little after he’d escaped from the Prison Realm and found he’d missed a little over ten funerals. It had, in all honesty, taken the wind right out of his sails.
He had you now, and even if he knew you didn’t love him and he sure as hell didn’t love you back, he had no desire to shame you. He likes to think he’s cut from a different cloth, a different breed from the rest of the men in his family.
The twenty-eight year old Gojo would have jumped off a cliff if he saw himself years later, standing in front of his pregnant, green-with-jealousy wife.
Or maybe he would have loved it. He certainly did now. He lived by the "happy wife, happy life" rule, but for a short moment, Gojo let himself gloat over the fact that you, his arranged wife that didn’t love him, was jealous. You were bright green over the thought of him sleeping around. Gojo bit his lip to stop the beginnings of an arrogant smirk. You’d probably clock him on the spot.
He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the feeling of his ego swelling. It was already too big in the first place, and the thought of you being jealous didn’t really help.
Time to deescalate, Gojo. Happy wife, happy life.
He asked again, voice steady. “You think I’ve been sleeping around?”
You rolled your eyes. “Yes, dummy. I think you’ve been sleeping around. What are you gonna do about it?”
Make you roll your eyes for a completely different reason. “What I’m gonna do, silly girl, is tell you that no, I’m not.”
You raised an eyebrow, suddenly looking tired. Worry licked at his chest. It was getting pretty late for you to still be up. He pushed the neurosis down. He’s been dodging this conversation for far too long, and now it's blowing up in his face.
As much as he likes the idea of you being jealous over him, (because he was a vain man, that’s obviously the only reason) he still doesn’t like the thought of you losing sleep over some imaginary infidelity (he doesn’t like it because it would be bad for the baby, that’s obviously the only reason). He’s determined to get that thought out of your head, he’d do anything.
Okay, maybe he won’t do one thing. He’s sworn off of it for at least six more months. Such a shame, it would come in handy right about now.
But nooo, he was a little bitch, so he’d have to use his words. He tried now.
“I’m not, okay? I know it’s hard to believe, but you’re the only one in my life now. I don’t have it in me anymore. Must be the old age.”
You didn’t smile at that. He tried harder. Women, he lamented, you women and your crazy little heads.
He took a step closer to you. You smelled like chocolate and him, his cologne rubbing off on you from earlier. He decided that he likes the smell. He liked it a lot. Maybe a little too much.
He brushed your hair out of your face. A wide hand rested once more on your stomach. He failed to hold back another smile at the feeling. Who would have thought he'd be standing one random night in the future, trying to appease an angry, pregnant wife?
My baby, my wife.
My wife.
His heart was a gooey mess inside him when he said:
“I’m sorry if I made you think that I am.”
Angry as you were, you softened at that. Your face, set in stone, gave way to such vulnerability that his knees went a little weak.
And I promised to do this right. Great going, Gojo.
Then your eyes snapped up to meet his. They’re filled with determination.
“Don’t tell me, dummy, show me. Fuck me like you mean it.”
You are straightforward as always, and damn if it doesn’t get him all hot and bothered, but he’s sworn off of it.
“I’ll show you in any other way, love, but not this way.”
Rejection stung you across the face, and you prickled at the feeling.
“What way, then, you coward? Another necklace? Another stupid trip to France where you’d sleep in a Frenchwoman’s bed? You can shove your Cartiers and your Guccis up your stripey a—”
He kissed you to shut you up. Despite your anger, you kiss him back. He pulled away too soon and you shot him a heated glare.
"Why don’t you get it, you gigantic moron? I miss you."
You missed him, plain and simple. Was it so wrong for a wife to miss her husband?
He stared serenely back at you, water to your fire. "I miss you too, sweetie, more than you’ll ever know."
"But I can’t give you what you want."
Rejection is a stinging, degrading feeling. It cuts a straight line across you, and the wound opens, spilling out all your ugly insecurities and your heavy doubts. It all boiled down to one thing.
“Don’t you want me anymore?”
Gojo’s ribs constrict in his chest. He feels them shatter one by one. The jagged edges dig into his soul.
They hurt less than the look you gave him. Your eyes are wide and unsure. Your lip trembled.
In the jujutsu world, Gojo Satoru is a hero.
But at that moment he felt like a dirty, good-for-nothing scumbag of a villain. He was no hero. He probably skinned puppies for a living. He might as well have two red horns on his forehead and a barbed tail between his stripey ass cheeks. He’s the evilest, nastiest man in the world.
Because he had hurt you.
No choice now, but to atone for the greatest sin in his book. He took a deep breath.
So much for words, hotshot. Here goes nothing.
“Do I really need to show you this way?” He took a step forward, pushing you a step back. His hands gripped your arms. “Do I really have to? Is this the only way you’ll believe me?” He pushed you farther. The edge of the bed hit the back of your knees.
You’ve long been lost in his spell.
“Silly baby. You could have asked me for anything and I’d give it to you.” He lifts the right strap of your nightgown, and drags it off your shoulder. You shiver.
“Anything. I could have flown you to Milan for Fashion Week and let you go crazy. We could have gone up to Manhattan and came back in a Bugatti in your favorite color. You could have asked me for a trip to Vegas and we’d blow millions in one night. It would have been so much fun, baby.”
He took the other strap off. Your nightgown falls softly to the floor. With you naked in front of him, Gojo's rope was fraying.
He kept talking, for you and for him.
“But no, baby, you wouldn’t have it. Because after all this time, after all the pretty things I’ve shown you…”
He took your hand, and places it where he needs you.
“All you want is me and my cock.”
Your knees buckled. He caught you with no problem. He laughed at you.
“Not so mad now, are we? Are you happy now? You got what you want, didn’t you?”
“You happy now, hm? Happy that you can play your husband like a damn game? Happy you’ve got me wrapped around your pretty little finger?”
You squeezed his hard cock in your hand. You gave him a little grin, like a cat that ate the canary, if the cat was half-drunk with lust, knees shaky with arousal.
He groaned, but once more something flickers his eyes.
You’ve warped before you get the chance to speak. Suddenly your back was on the mattress, with him above you. He pushed his legs between yours, and the cool air hit your still-wet cunt.
But once again, there was something different.
His mouth descended on yours, and his lips were hungry as always. His teeth, sharp on the softness of your lips. You breathed in his air and he breathed in yours.
But something was different.
His teeth did not bite. His lips did not bruise. His hands stayed fisted on the sheets, as if he refused to put them on you.
You tried to speak against his mouth. It takes him a moment to hear you through the pounding in his ears.
“Why are you holding back?”
He puts on a facade. It’s a valiant attempt, but it doesn’t fool you.
“You call this holding back?”
It’s a valiant attempt. It doesn’t fool you.
You study him closely. You shiver in the cold air.
Then it hits you.
His hands stay fisted in the sheets. He cranes his neck away from you, holding his weight off of you. There’s plenty of space for cold air between you, when there should be none. Even his hips, which would now be pressed desperately against you, were held a good few inches away.
Rejection is a stinging, degrading feeling. It brings friends this time, two of them: shame and insecurity.
Your face crumpled. Your hands dropped away from their place in his hair. You turned away from him. His astonished eyes betrayed nothing.
“Let’s not,” you muttered. You didn’t look at him.
“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” you said. You are embarrassed beyond belief.
When he didn’t move, your temper flared. “I don’t need a pity fuck, Gojo. Get off of me, I’ll sleep in my own room.”
He remained silent.
Angry tears slipped out of your eyes, and your hands pushed at his shoulders to no avail. You snap your head back up, to look him in the eye and tell him—
Your stopped dead at the sight of his face.
He gaped at you. His eyes were wide. He looked at you like he was seeing a nuclear bomb detonate.
“You think I don’t want you?”
Frustration pushed another set of tears from your eyes. You angrily wiped them away. You didn’t trust yourself to speak.
His lips moved soundlessly, mouthing your previous words.
Don't you want me anymore?
You didn't trust yourself to speak. He beat you to it.
"I thought you were joking, I— You think that I— You seriously think I don’t want you?”
The horrified disbelief in his voice sparked hope in your chest, but you pushed it away. You’ve had quite enough disappointment for one night.
“Yesterday I jerked off to a photo of you. I came all over the fucking kitchen sink. The kitchen sink. I didn't make it to the bathroom. And you think I don’t want you?”
A startled laugh bubbled out of you. It sounded a little crazy. The things that come out of your mouth, Gojo, I swear to god. You decided to speak up, and your voice is a little steadier than you expected it to be.
“Gojo, what the fuck?”
He was still looking at you like you’d told him the Earth was flat. “Yeah, what the fuck is right. It was that selfie you sent me of you drinking a fucking iced latte. I took one look at that stupid straw in your mouth and I was a goner. And you think that I don't want you?”
You’re confused beyond words.
He talked on. “Just this morning you walked past me smelling like fucking blueberries and I had to jerk off again, in the toilet this time, thank god. Why the fuck would you think I don’t want you?”
You’re voice was high with indignation when you said, “Because you haven’t— I— We haven’t had sex in weeks, Gojo, you dumbass! And I thought it was because I’d gained weight, or maybe the stretch marks? I don’t know, you tell me—”
“Stretch marks,” he repeated, sounding like all the air in his lungs had been punched out. “Stretch marks.”
You rolled your eyes. For someone praised so highly for his tactical skill, your husband sure had his head up his ass. “Yeah, stretch marks.”
“You think I don’t want you anymore because you got stretch marks.”
“Yep,” you said, popping your P.
He blinked at you.
“Now get off me,” you said to him. “I said I don’t want the pity fuck anymore. Maybe I’d settle for the Bugatti—”
His lips fell on yours. They taste like anger.
He drew back, and the venom in his voice threw you in for another loop.
“You stupid, stupid woman.”
It was your turn to gape at him.
“You think I give a fuck about you having stretch marks?” His voice was demanding, and it was angry. His fists moved from their place on the sheets and grabbed your shoulders. He shook you slightly.
“You think I don’t want you?” His hands scrambled for yours, and once more he pressed your palm to the tent in his pants. His cock was warm against your touch, hard and ready.
He kissed you again. You were too whiplashed to kiss him back.
Then he stood up, muttering angrily. His face is angry, but his eyes shine with inexplicable fear. “I’ll show you, alright. Silly, stupid girl, thinking I don’t want you. I’ll show you, I’ll fucking show you.”
His shirt was thrown off, pants pulled off roughly with his boxers. His cock slapped against his stomach, soaking wet.
He was back on you in a flash. His fingers found your cunt, and they were insistent as always. They pushed and prodded until you were a gasping, dripping mess beneath him.
He ignored your hushed waits and slow downs. Once he was satisfied with the slick travelling up to his wrist. He shifted so his cock was right where you wanted it.
He took a moment to pump his own shaft, eyeing your cunt greedily. He'd missed the sight like nothing else. Drool filled his mouth, leaking out the corners before he could swallow it down.
But something is still off.
He was visibly cringing away from you. His other hand remained motionless on your knee, when it should have been slapping your ass and squeezing your tits and wrapped around your throat.
And his eyes, which by now should have been half-lidded and clouded with lust, were wide open.
The light in them was one of a deep, deep anxiety.
And he was stalling. The tip of his cock kissed your folds, and he jerked away like he had been burned.
You were quickly reaching the end of your line. “Gojo, I swear to God I don’t fucking know what’s going on with you anymore.”
“I—” He faltered. Realizatiin washed over him like a bucket of cold water. He had sworn off this, remember? He was supposed to use his words tonight, remember? He swore he wouldn’t let anything hurt you anymore, and that included himself, remember?
But here he was, once more unable to resist, drooling at the mere sight of you. And you were just destroying his already poor self-control. It's like putting an eggshell against a sledgehammer.
He swallowed thickly. "Look, I—"
“You what, Gojo? Stop fucking around. Get out of your stupid head and get inside me.” Your hips rolled, and he groaned. To his horror and his body’s overdue relief, you took matters into your own hands. Literally. You took his cock and ran it down your folds. Unable to move a muscle, Gojo could only watch as you hooked the head of his cock into your cunt, pressing your hips down.
You shivered on his lap, and who was he but a slave to his own biology? His hips moved on autopilot, fucking into you, seeking warmth.
Anxiety gripped his heart even as your cunt gripped his cock.
I should pull out. Pull out, man. You’re stronger than this. Pull out and just jerk it off in the shower. Don’t listen to her even if she starts crying at the door. Tie her to a chair if you have to. Buy her a hundred vibrators and let her fuck herself to sleep. You can listen through the walls if you want, tie yourself to a chair if that's what it takes because if you keep at this you’ll—
“Hurt you,” he gritted out. He wasn’t strong at all, because he had finally bottomed out in you, and it felt so good that he thought he might start sobbing.
You looked at him, uncomprehending. “W— What?”
“Hurt you,” he groaned. Your pussy clenched, and he had to run a hand over his face. It’s taking all of him and then some to keep still, to not rut into you like the beast he was, to not claw and grip and bite at your skin.
All that, because you were fragile now. In his eyes, you are a dainty glass figurine, swollen with his child. He has to fight to keep you close but not too close, holding you covetously to his chest, but keeping his grip light as a feather.
You were fragile now, not something to hold in hands trained to kill.
“Hurt you, I might hurt you.” He’s half crying now, losing the fight against his own traitorous body. He started fucking into you, the movement unconscious, his body hungry for the sensation.
“Hurt me? Gojo, you won’t—”
“Satoru,” he reminded you. “Satoru in bed, remember?”
“Satoru.” Your voice still has attitude in it, he notes with relief. It would mean he hasn’t hurt you yet. “Satoru, don’t be ridiculous, you won’t hurt me with a bit of sex—”
He bent down to you, or as far as he could without touching your belly. He sucked his gut in, as if the mere touch of his abdomen on yours would crush the baby.
“You know what I mean.” His eyes were aflame. “You know what I mean, baby. You know the way I fuck, don’t you?”
You knew all too well. Gentle was not a word in his vocabulary. His violence is one of his greatest traits, and one of his more monstrous ones.
And sex brought it all out, the best and the worst of him.
And here, with his dick in you and a world of anxiety in his eyes, he finally came clean.
“I don’t trust myself no more, baby. Don’t trust myself to fuck you and not hurt you like I always do.”
Here, with his dick in you and something that feels like love in your chest, you finally understand.
Relief floods you, relief and overwhelming affection for the stupid, broken, breathtaking man you called your husband.
You laughed, and it would have sounded sweet, but the rocking motion did interesting things to your bodies. He stiffened on top of you, and before he could pull away you gripped his pretty, stupid head in your hands.
“You’re a fucking dumbass, Gojo.”
“Satoru,” he whined. “I’m Satoru to you.”
Your heart was a gooey mess, dripping around your ribcage, when you kissed his forehead. Satoru to me. Only to me.
You rolled your eyes when they met his. “Oh, please. I can call you whatever you want. Right now I’m calling you a pussy, because you were scared you’ll fucking poke the baby or something—”
He cut you off. “Oh come on. Give me some credit, I know I won’t poke the damn baby. It was on like, chapter three of—”
You shut him up with another roll of your hips. His mouth fell open in a pained gasp, and he grabbed your hips to keep you still. He shook his head, his eyes were pleading when he said:
“Please, baby. You’re not doing me any favors here.”
You smiled at him, and it holds something like love and a bit of pity for the broken man you called your husband.
The man that lived to fuck, reduced to jerking himself off at odd hours of the day, all because he was afraid he’d be too rough with you.
He wasn’t the breakfast-in-bed, kiss-you-out-the-door type.
No, he was the buy-a-battle-axe type. He’s the shitty-baby-shower-cake-and-designer-stroller type. He’s the pregnancy-books-and-Youtube-tutorials type. He’s the protect-you-from-everything type. Protect you from everything, including himself. Hold-back-and-jerk-off type, all because he was afraid he’d be too rough with you.
It was fucking... weird. And stupid. And unnecessary. And really fucking weird.
It was so romantic.
You smiled, then you laughed, and pretty soon you were throwing your head back. Your laughter bounced off the walls. In another time, Gojo would take the time to listen and laugh along with you, but he was too busy dealing with the most brutal cockwarming he’s ever had, his wife laughing at him while he was balls-deep inside her.
Then you stopped, wiping happy tears from your eyes.
“Fuck me, Satoru.” You pulled him close and kissed his pretty mouth as he hovered on top of you. White hair fell softly around his face.
“You won’t hurt me.” Your legs wrapped around his waist.
You smiled when you felt him move again. “You won’t hurt me, Satoru.”
You whispered against his open mouth. “I won’t let you.”
He sighed, and finally gave in.
Gentle is not a word in Gojo Satoru's vocabulary.
But for tonight, he’d like you to make an exception.
He forced himself to be gentle as he bent over you, holding his weight on his forearms. Veins popped out on his temples at the effort.
You noticed, and cooed up at him. “Right there, Satoru, baby, right there. You won’t hurt me, you never will. I know you never will.”
Anxiety clung to him like an annoying pest. “I might. I will, like I always hurt—”
You kissed him to shut him up. “You won’t.”
He let out a defeated little sound, burying his head in your neck. The feeling of your heels digging into the small of his back was going to be the death of him.
“Move, Satoru.” You urged him on, and it really didn’t help. “Move, I can take it I can take it I won't let you hurt me so give it to me —”
His head snapped up to look at you. “You can take it, you say?”
He pushed up, on his knees, ignoring your protests. “Take it, then.”
He started a brutal pace, and you moaned in satisfaction. He huffed a tired sigh at that.
“Easy for you to say, when you’re not the one going crazy, yeah?”
He slowed down, and thrust so hard and far up inside you that you worry for the baby. They say cocky men were compensating for something. Your husband would be one of the few exceptions.
He ran a hand a hand through his hair. It was quite the sight to see. His abs ripple as he fucks into you, small shallow thrusts driving you insane. Those amped-up workout routines were really showing, as Adonis himself glared down at you.
“Easy for you to say that. When you’re not the one who has to hold back.” One thrust, hard, punctuates his words.
“Fucking easy for you to say, isn’t it?” Another thrust. “Easy for you, when you’re not the one too scared to even touch you?” Another.
You sobbed under him, face twisted with desperate need. You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
“Satoru, please—”
“Please what?”
"Please, move, give me more—”
“I’ll give you more, oooh god— you make it so hard to hold back, baby girl. You don’t know how hard it’s been to stay away from you looking like that.”
You tried to keep up with him. His hips were barely controlled, slamming into you with half of his usual force. Control came easy to Gojo. It’s his daily saving grace. But now he had to put his back into it, fucking his pregnant wife and trying his best not to break her.
“Looking— Looking like what?”
“Like that,” he said, and he’s grinning proudly when he looks down at you. He’s losing his breath, and his pace is starting to stutter. The long weeks away from you are starting to get to him. “Like this.”
His smile was crooked when he bent down to kiss the top of your belly. “Like this,” he starts again. “All swollen and glowing with me. You seen yourself lately, pretty girl? You look so damn good all the time. All red cheeks and shiny hair and a round ass. You're absolutely beautiful. Everyone tells me my wife is so beautiful. They tell me you're glowing, tell me you light up the room. They tell me I'm doing something right for once in my life, because my wife looks so damn pretty with my baby in her."
"I must be doing something right, eh? You think so? Do I take care of you right?"
You whispered into his pouting mouth. "Careful, your praise kink is showing."
He laughed. "I'm doing something right for once, because you haven't left me yet."
He droned on and on. It was getting hard to focus on his voice when the cock you had so missed was rubbing you in all the right places.
“Heh,” he chuckled, and sweat drips down from his hair to your face. “You’ve started to waddle, you know? When you walk down the stairs you look like a little penguin. You don’t notice but I do. I’m always looking at you. Always looking at you, only you. You waddle like a penguin and I see it. So cute, so fucking cute god —”
He sped up. Your thighs clenched in warning. He’s feeling more relaxed now. This long into it and he hasn’t hurt you yet, not yet.
You’re the opposite of hurt when you cried out. “Satoru, Satoru, please pleasepleaseplease—”
“Yes, baby.” His voice was growing desperate as well. "Yes, baby, I’m here, I’m here. Tell me what you want I’ll give you whatever you want I’ll give you the damn world if you so much as ask.”
“Your cum,” you babbled out. The filth in your words was lost on you. “Your cum, Satoru. Haven’t had it in so long. Please, please—”
“Of course, baby,” he whispered into your ear. “Of course, of course. Anything you want anything you want I’ll give you anything— fuck—”
He collapsed on top of you, but he now knew how to shift his weight on his forearms to keep it off you. He knew how to arch his back to thrust in you but not jostle your swollen belly. He knew now, where to hold you, to ease his mind, to distract himself from the feeling that he was being swept away by you.
With a very pregnant you in his arms and the weight of the world on his shoulders, Gojo Satoru finally learned how to handle something with care.
Your cunt clenched around him. Your lips formed a neat little O.
He watched you, eyes soaking it all up, and if your eyes were open you’d be a little scared at the look in his as he watched you.
His precious glass figurine. The strongest woman he’s ever met in his life. His best friend in the whole wide world, the only one he has left. The mother of his child. His wife. His wife. His wife.
The weight of the world is light as air, when he thinks of you by his side, with his son in your arms.
The world is light as air, becayse now he has his own. His world is clutched safe in his arms. His world is you. You, his wife, falling apart in his arms.
“Fuck, fuck— Satoru, Satoru I—”
“Let go, baby. Let go,” His command is pushed out through gritted teeth. He’s awfully close, but he needs you to go first. It was on the preface of How To Be a Good Dad: For Dummies: From now on, your wife always comes first.
No problem.
You shivered in his arms, and with a little grind of silvery-white hair on your clit, you’re done for. You shook, head pushed back into the pillows. Your orgasms were always a sight to see, and he’d be the only one who sees it from here on out.
He’d like to enjoy the view a little while longer, but he’s cumming too.
“Oh fuck,” he groaned out. His forehead landed heavy on your chin, and he can’t help but latch his teeth on your neck. He thought he should leave just a little souvenir, to compliment the other: his baby in you. His bite marks would look better than any Cartier in the world, anyway.
“Fuck, fuck fuckfuckfuuuuckkk —” His expletives come out in staccato as his hips go faster, faster, faster.
Then you arch up, soft, heavy breasts pressing against his chest, a nice contrast to the hard bump that pushes into his abs.
Satoru blacked out for a second, and then his balls were clenching. Cum spurted out of his cock, and the sheer relief of it made him moan the loudest yet. It sounded like he was in pain. It certainly felt good enough to hurt.
He moaned out his ecstasy, and you moaned along with him. His heels dug into the mattress, and he gripped the sheets to not crush you against him. The teeth at your neck bit down, and the familiar pain warmed your heart. The old, violent Gojo Satoru wasn’t gone just yet, and you’d have a little souvenir to look back on, that and his baby inside you.
Then his orgasm ended, and with his cock twitching emptily into your cunt, Gojo came down. He stayed like that for a while, holding himself up, still moaning softly.
A little cross-eyed, he pulls back to look at your face.
“You good, baby? Does anything hurt?”
You managed a drunk smile. “Nope,” you said, popping your P. “Never been better.”
He believed you this time. He would never hurt you, right? You’d never let him.
Why did I ever think you were made of glass?
He smiled down at you. Satisfaction and pride is heavy on his face.
“You’re such a slut,” he teased.
Ah, the joys of married life. Nothing like your husband slut-shaming you with his dick still inside you.
You kissed his nose. “Only for you.”
“Yeah,” he gloated. “Only for me."
You smiled at each other. Then Gojo’s lips pursed. He shook his head slowly.
“Let’s get you cleaned up and sleeping. You shouldn’t be up this late.”
You rolled your eyes, but you know better than to argue with him. He’d probably shoot you with a horse tranquilizer. You certainly wouldn't put it past him.
He pulled you up by the arms, and he slipped the nightgown on you. He grabbed a box of wet wipes next to the bed. He cleaned you up gently, chuckling when you squirmed as he wiped at your oversensitive folds.
After the both of you were clean, you held your breath.
He sighed, thinking about abstinence and how absolutely dreadful he was at it.
“Well, no point staying away from you now.”
Your answering grin was wide, all teeth and no doubt. He melted. How cute is that?
Maybe he didn't really have a chance. It's like taking an alcoholic to the club and expecting him to order water.
An eggshell versus ten sledgehammers.
“You’re staying?” You demanded.
“Yep”, he said, popping his P. “Staying from here on out.”
You clapped your hands in jest. “Yay.”
Then you noticed something. It’s the jar of cocoa butter, forgotten on a bedside table.
“Oops, forgot to close it.” You moved to stand, but a hand automatically pushed on your shoulder.
“Nah, I got it.”
You shrug. “Okay. Put it in the bottom drawer.”
He nodded, screwing the lid on. “Which drawer? This one—”
The sound of quiet snoring reached his ears.
He chuckled at the sight of his sleeping wife. He reached over to the bedside table, sliding it open.
Gojo’s heart melts and drips in his ribcage, pooling warmth into his entire being.
Inside the drawer were two more unopened jars of Palmer's cocoa butter.