Please, Mr. Kento… Your Wife Really, Really Needs You.
Ch 1. The Dinner Party Act 1
You thought you could win. He never needed to play.
It started with one protective, bratty remark — the kind you thought was harmless.
You just had to remind her whose husband she was lusting after.
Now you’re trapped in a cold war of denied orgasms and torturously slow edging, courtesy of Mr. Nanami: your devoted, composed, maddeningly restrained husband… and a pediatric neurosurgeon with the patience of a saint.
He says it’s about intimacy.
You say it’s cruel.
And maybe you are a bit of a brat.
But you're also a very slow learner.
Unfortunatly for you — he has all the time in the world.
Pairing. Kento Nanami X Reader
MDNI NSFW, 18+ Only. — Nanami Kento x Reader · Married!Nanami · Established Relationship · Reader POV · Dinner Party Drama · Jealousy · Public Teasing · Banter · Sibling Telepathy · Overprotective Gojo · Quiet Dominance · Power Dynamics · Possessive Behavior · Flirting Across the Table · Unspoken Warnings · Psychological Warfare in High Heels · Steady Husband / Chaotic Wife Energy · Reader Tests His Patience · Brat Taming · Pride Kink? · Symbolism (Cufflinks & Earrings) · Emotional Undercurrents · “All It Takes Is a Look” · Edging · Orgasm Denial · Face Sitting · Married Sex · Domestic Kink · Post-Oral Glow · Lipstick Marks · Ruined Composure · Delayed Gratification · Marital Teasing · Fluff with Heat · Emotional Aftercare · Happy Ending (Eventually)
A/N.… Enjoy!!! I beleive each chapter since its so long will have to be cut up in part hence why chapter 1 has 5 acts. thus far we have 42k+ words
Mr. Kento was many things.
He was an exceptional husband — the kind who folded laundry without being asked, simply because easing his beloved wife’s life wasn’t duty. It was instinct.
The kind who never let the coffee pot sit empty.
Who read your moods like scripture — and answered with silence, shelter, or the softest apology, murmured into your hair.
He was a devoted father — the sort of man who tied shoelaces with quiet precision, packed lunchboxes with hand-written notes, and made every scraped knee feel like a lesson in resilience. Steady. Present. Unshakable — even when the rest of the world came undone.
He was also, to your constant amusement and deep delight, a surprisingly good baker.
He claimed it was the math of it — precise measurements, predictable reactions.
But you knew better.
You’d caught him once — just once — whispering a prayer over a rising loaf like it was a sacred thing.
Because bread, like children, needed patience. Warmth.
And he had both in abundance.
But most of all — most intimately — he was an intense, focused lover.
There was no hesitation in him. No fumbling. No bluffing. No overcompensation.
He studied your body like scripture, too — sacred, living, holy.
Learned every nuance of your breath. Every shift in your spine. Every stutter in your voice.
And when he touched you — really touched you —
it was with the same reverence he baked with.
Intentional. Steady. Worshipful.
He knew exactly when to use his hands… and when to use his mouth.
Knew how to coax a gasp from your chest before you even knew it was building there.
He was the epitome of secure masculinity:
quiet. Firm. Endlessly patient.
The kind of man who didn’t need to dominate a room…
because he was the room.
Bratty. Stubborn. Occasionally insufferable. An energy drink in human form. A little mouthy. A lot dramatic. You stirred the pot because you liked watching it bubble. You kissed him mid-argument just to throw him off. You said things like “I’m fine” when you absolutely weren’t — and rolled your eyes when he knew better.
You were, in more ways than one, your brother’s twin flame — Gojo Satoru in heels.
And if anyone else had asked, they’d probably have said it shouldn’t work.
Because Nanami Kento hated Gojo.
Hated the noise, the ego, the chaos.
Hated that no matter how many times he tried, he couldn’t get Gojo to shut up and breathe.
You had the same fire.
The same mouth.
The same need to push, push, push!
You could be bent over and fucked into reason — slow or punishing, depending on how far you'd strayed.
Until every stubborn thought melted beneath the weight of his body.
Until your sharp tongue gave way to broken whimpers and breathless apologies.
Until you weren’t rolling your eyes anymore — instead you were crying out his name like it was salvation.
Until your chaos folded into obedience, not because he demanded it…
but because you wanted to.
Because with him, even your defiance had a home — and your surrender, a purpose.
And that, honestly?
Was the secret to your very successful marriage.
You stretched across the bed like a satisfied cat — hair perfectly done, makeup flawless, every inch of you saying composed when everything underneath said otherwise.
Your robe hung loose around your hips, just barely holding on, the soft dip of your belly button peeking through like a whispered secret. Still, one leg kicked out from beneath the sheets; playfully. The morning had already been slow — indulgent, intimate and dangerously quiet.
No pitter-patter of feet. No little voices fighting over spoons or snacks. Just you, your man, and the leftovers of desire still humming in the room. The house was too quiet.
Which meant your man was your ‘next’ target.
Ino, ever the papa’s boy, had marched off like a little man — black beanie pulled low, book on the human brain clutched to his chest, brows furrowed in deep, unnecessary seriousness.
In truth, he was still very much a golden-retriever sun child. He was akin to his favorite uncle, Haibara… but he was in that phase where he wanted nothing more than to be just like Dad.
Yuta, on the other hand, had clung a little longer — eyes glossy, lip trembling — until three mama kisses and an extra pack of gummies finally convinced him the world would be okay without you. He was your peace keeper.
And Nana — beautiful, dirty-blonde Nana — had given a single, regal wave from her car seat, like a queen departing for sea. Five going on fifty, with pearls around her neck and judgment in her eyes, she’d had Nanami wrapped around her little finger since the moment he knew she existed.
The pearls? A gift from her uncle Satoru — bought after she threw a tantrum so indignant it could’ve shaken the foundation of the clan estate. He’d found it adorable, of course. Called her a pest when she dramatically sobbed that she was being treated like one. He spoiled her endlessly — and she, in turn, side-eyed him like he was her personal burden. Because while Nana carried herself with Gojo’s unshakeable belief that she was the main character, her soul was pure Nanami.
Type A. Detail-obsessed. Disciplined in the way only a child raised on quiet routines and scheduled meals could be.
She loved fiercely, but never loudly.
And when it came to her uncle Satoru? She saw him less like an authority figure… and more like a wayward creature she’d been tasked with protecting from himself.
So now, with the house to yourselves, you did what any woman would do with a gorgeous husband home on his day off. The house was barely settling into the quiet before you were dragging him back down into the sheets — and riding him like a cowgirl, allowing some of your own mixed noises to fill the house in their absence.
But now, now, he was trying to leave.
And you, on the other hand, had no intention of making this easy.
You didn’t stand right away.
No — you stretched first.
Slow and fluid, like silk sliding off satin, arching your back just enough to draw his eyes even if he wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of turning around. The robe slipped from your shoulder with a whisper. Exposing the hickey next to your swollen nipple.
You didn’t catch it. On purpose.
Your legs slid free of the sheets, ankles crossing, one red toe dragging along the edge of the bed like you were stretching for the evening sun. Everything you did was soft, inviting. A purr dressed as a sigh.
“Hmm,” you murmured thoughtfully. “Still pretending you don’t want me?”
So you sat up slowly. Let the robe part. Let it fall further than modesty allowed; not that you had any around him.
Nanami adjusted his cuffs in the mirror, rolling the silver links into place with practiced ease.
They were the ones you gave him before the two of you stood before the Gojos — Defiant and in Love.
A quiet promise etched in precious metal and stone: I choose you. Even if there are barriers. Even if the whole world tells me not to — it’s always you.
Simple. Elegant. And he’d worn them ever since.
Still dressed in self-control. Still trying to leave.
You watched from the bed like a cat stretched across a sunlit ledge — lazy, smug, and anything but innocent.
"You’re really going to leave me like this?” you asked, voice dripping with slow mischief.
He didn’t answer. Just buttoned his cuffs — His hands were steady. His restraint, legendary.
One languid stretch — effortless and deliberate.
The robe slipped from your shoulder in a silken cascade — and suddenly, there you were: completely bare from the collarbones down.
Every hickey he’d left across your chest, your breasts, your ribs — all of it laid out in the soft, forgiving hush of evening light. Your nipples peaked in the cool air, but you didn’t flinch.
You didn’t cover yourself.
You didn’t have to.
Because with him, you could be this —
unguarded, unhidden, undone.
You let him look.
And you let him see.
Because this — you — like this, marked and proud, was his favorite sight in the world.
You sat up just enough to let the fabric fall farther, lips tugging into a grin. “You’re going to miss me while we attend that boring dinner party.”
“I’ll miss the quiet,” he said evenly.
You rolled your eyes and scoffed. “Coward.” still no reaction
You moved in a glide more than a walk — slow, measured, entirely unbothered.
The robe hung from your elbows, loose and forgotten; letting your breasts bounce freely with each step, soft and unbound.
You took your time approaching him, hips swaying with the kind of ease that made it clear: you weren’t trying.
He refused to turn. Not even a glance.
So you leaned into his back, arms slipping around his waist, pressing your chest into the fabric of his shirt.
“You love me like this,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his cotton-shirted bicep, your lips barely brushing the fabric. Your eyes met his in the mirror — the same one he used to straighten his tie — lashes low, gaze deliberately sweet.
“All bratty and insufferable,” you added, voice like honey and trouble.
“Not insufferable,” he corrected. “Just loud.”
You smiled. “You love it.”
You slid your hands down, slowly, suggestively, until they grazed his belt.
He caught your wrists instantly.
You tilted your head, smile deepening. “You’d never admit it.”
“Especially not in front of my brother,” you added. “Because if Gojo knew you liked me like this, he’d never shut up.”
“He already doesn’t shut up.”
You chuckled. “He’d say you should’ve married him.”
“He ‘has’ said that,” Nanami muttered.
You gasped, playful. “And what did you say?”
“I reminded him he’s allergic to responsibility.”
“Hmm,” You sounded, pensitively, warm against him. “And yet… you chose me.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him.
“And you love me bratty.” you pushed.
“I tolerate it.” he pushed back.
You grinned. “You worship it.”
Nanami’s mouth twitched — the smallest of smiles. But his eyes were soft.
You stepped back half a pace, still watching him — glowing, teasing, real.
And then, without breaking eye contact, you reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.
She’d done it then, too, thought Nanami.
Mid-laugh, apron crooked, piping bag in hand. She’d been teasing him — something about how stiff his dough looked — and then just… tucked her hair back.
He hadn’t even known her name then. Not really. Not that she was Gojo’s sister. He just remembered thinking: ‘Shit’. I’m in trouble.
It was a pastry class. You, a culinary major. Him, a neuroscience student.
He didn’t want to be there. He’d signed up for hand precision training, not macaron theory. And yet… there you were…
Second row, fourth seat. Light blue apron. Lips pursed in concentration. Whipping egg whites with chaotic flair.
You didn’t talk much at first.
But your energy…
There was something about the way you existed — too big for the room but trying to hide it. He noticed the way you rolled your eyes at bad recipes. The way you stuck your tongue out when you piped frosting. The way you smirked when your soufflé rose higher than his.
By week three, he knew. You reminded him of someone.
He’d sensed it before he heard the name — that chaotic confidence, that impossible gravity. Only a Gojo could carry it like that. And when he finally caught your last name — Gojo — he nearly walked out of class and never came back.
You were Satoru’s sister.
Of course.
And yet… One afternoon, you turned to him, eyes wide and uncertain, and asked,
“Can you show me how you got your pâte à choux so round?”
And he did.
Because even then — even before the ring, before the house, before the way you filled every corner of his life —
he was already yours…
When he blinked again, you were in front of him — robe slipping more, grin still soft, skin still sun-warm and shameless.
And his hands found your naked waist.
You didn’t even need to speak.
He kissed you — deep, slow, reverent — the kind of kiss that came from somewhere old. Like he was still tasting flour on your lips; and regret in his chest for ever thinking he could resist you.
You smiled into it and thought deviously ‘Got’emmmm.’
Because just as your hands drifted lower — fingertips brushing the buckle of his belt — he broke the kiss… and stepped back.
“I’m giving them a toast.” he said, adjusting his Rolex on his wrist. “We’re already late.”
Your mouth dropped open. “You’re leaving?”
“I’m dressing,” he corrected.
You placed a hand on your hip, voice a little breathless brest jiggling. “You’d really walk away from this?”
He grabbed his jacket. “Yes.”
You tilted your head, eyes narrowing. “Even if —,”
You paused. The grin returned.
“I told you I’m ovulating ken —?”
You were wicked for saying it.
He should have walked out.
He really should have. There was an engagement dinner waiting for him. Friends. Wine. Candlelight. A perfectly respectable evening with perfectly respectable people.
He shouldn’t have been thinking about it not while you were— all fire, mischief and brattiness–
But it was a feeling he couldn’t forget.
One he swore he could sense before the tests ever turned pink.
Not from lust.
Not immediately.
But from the sudden, overwhelming memory of what that meant—
what you were insinuating he could make happen.
The way your skin glowed golden, stretched tight over curves that softened in all the right places.
The way your back arched slower, breath shallower, every moan like honey slipping from an overfilled jar.
But most of all—your pretty pregnant pussy.
He’d never been able to describe it. Still couldn’t.
It was different when you were pregnant.
Soft wasn’t the right word.
Neither was tight.
It was… plush. Gummy. Fluffy. Ticklish. Deep.
Forgiving, yet greedy.
Like the act itself was sacred—not just sex, but continuation. Like your body recognized him. Welcomed him. Wanted to keep him.
That first time, with Ino—he was ruined for it.
Ruined for every quick, teasing fuck in the hallway.
Every half-dressed stroke in the dark.
Because even when the sex was good—and it always was—it wasn’t that.
It wasn’t you, split wide open and in full bloom.
It wasn’t your body curling around him like you were trying to take more than he could give.
And maybe that was selfish.
Maybe it was wrong to want you that way again—
when you had an engagement dinner to attend and lashes perfectly curled.
But the thought had already taken root.
And Nanami… Nanami had always been a disciplined man.
But this—
this wasn’t about impulse.
Your pussy, when you were pregnant, didn’t just ‘fuck’ him—
it claimed him.
He adjusted his collar, jaw tight, exhale slow through his nose—
trying to get it under control.
And suddenly, all he could hear was your voice,
from those nights when your body was busy growing his child—
breathless and ruined:
“Again, hah... hah.....” you’d whispered the moan, already heavy with Nana,
breasts leaking milk into the sheets, hands tangled in his hair while he took you from the back..
“Please, again. ungh…! I ‘need’ you mmh! again.”
Your pussy had said the same thing.
Pregnancy changed you—not just in shape or sound, but in sensation.
It was as if your body knew it was meant to hold him then.
When you were pregnant, your cunt pulled him in.
Soft, hot, swollen with need.
Plush walls clinging like they didn’t want to let go.
And sometimes—shamefully, helplessly—he didn’t want to pull out.
He remembered that first time.
It had felt so delicious — so overwhelming — that it scared you both.
As a result you hadn’t touched each other for weeks after—Nanami was too worried, too cautious.
But when the doctor had said it would be fine.
You didn’t even speak after that visit.
You just rushed him to the bedroom.
And again you’d barely moved. Barely rocked your hips.
And still—he was rendered to nothing more but a ‘pathetic’ whimper.
Nanami Kento—stoic, composed—whimpered.
Because your cunt swallowed him to the base with no resistance.
Like your body was greedy to conceive again, even while it was still cradling the child he’d already given you.
You cried out from fullness.
He cried out from awe.
Just the tip made him gasp.
One pump made him sob.
Sometimes, he came before he could even move.
Just from the heat and pressure alone.
And you—smug and wrecked—would whisper, “Again, haah—!”
while still fluttering around him like you weren’t finished consuming.
It ruined him.
Rewired him.
He thought it was a fluke.
He later learned it was a pattern.
If he could keep you pregnant just to feel that again every night—he would.
Not just because it was good—
but because it felt like you were made for him.
Made to take him.
Made to carry him.
Made to own him.
He reached for his tie again now, adjusting it—
not out of impatience, but reverence.
Because the thought of entering you like that again—
slow, deep, crying—made his hands tremble.
You were still watching him.
Eyes playful. Voice teasing.
But he wasn’t hearing the words anymore.
Not really.
He was somewhere else—lost in memory. In muscle.
In the echo of your body back in those days.
Slick. Breathless. Desperate.
“I swear, Ken, uhmfff!” you’d whimpered once, clinging to him,
“you’re the only one I can feel in my throat.”
You’d said it with such abandon—such stunned, shaking truth—
like the words had slipped out before your mind could catch them.
Like your body had spoken first.
And he’d believed you.
Not because you’d known anyone else—you hadn’t.
But because even if you had, he knew:
you wouldn’t have lied.
Not like that.
Not in the heat of it—when your thighs were trembling and your breath was caught and your body couldn’t fake a thing.
No one—nothing—had ever undone him like you.
No one but the mother of his children.
No one but his wife—round and glowing and soaked before he even touched her.
And that was it.
That was the match to his fuse.
That puffiness. That grip.
That tender, greedy way you swallowed him whole—
not out of lust alone, but something soul deep.
Need.
When you were pregnant, your pussy didn’t just take him—
it wanted him.
Welcomed him.
Held him like it missed him.
And he knew that feeling.
God! that first time. It caught him off guard. And Nanami was never if ever caught by surprise
That reverent softness. That fluttering suction that made his knees shake before he’d even moved.
When you were pregnant, you swallowed him.
Clenched like you were trying to keep him there.
Seal him inside like the monster under your bed he’d gladly become.
And Nanami, ever rational, ever disciplined, had never believed in signs.
But you?
You made him believe in prophecy.
With Ino—neither of you knew.
You’d taken him in one night, slow and soft, and he’d paused—stunned—
because you felt different.
Plush. Swollen. Velvet-slick and eager.
And when he sank in, it was like you took him.
And before he could even move—before he could even breathe—he was already spilling into you.
It was humiliating, almost.
He felt like a prepubescent boy again. Undone by his very first orgasm—helpless, overwhelmed, completely at your mercy.
He could hardly believe himself.
He barely managed to murmur your name before he collapsed, stunned and shaking.
You cried that night. Said you didn’t know why. That your body felt strange.
Three weeks later, at that doctor's appointment, you both knew why.
The second time, with Yuta, he guessed it before you did.
Your back arched beneath him. Legs locked around his waist.
And he felt it again. That holy pull. That sacred grip.
That stretch that made him moan into you instead of above you.
You didn’t have to say a word.
He whispered it into your collarbone before the last of his seed painted your walls.
The third time, with Nana—he didn’t guess.
He knew.
You hadn’t missed a cycle. Hadn’t taken a test.
You hadn’t even thought to.
But your body gave you away.
‘His’ girl gave you away.
He was inside you, and still—still—you pulled him deeper.
The walls of you swelling so perfectly around him that his voice cracked in the middle of a kiss and he nearly wept into your hair.
He couldn’t thrust. Couldn’t move.
Couldn’t think.
You had him.
You always had him.
Pregnant you made him pray.
Now, standing in this room with your perfume thick in the air and your eyes dancing with mischief—
The heat behind your gaze.
The flutter beneath your skin.
The pull of you—that magnetic softness that always came first.
Before the cravings.
Before the tests.
Before the name.
His cock stirred in his pants like it already knew the truth.
Because of course it did.
You reached for his tie, smoothing it… then letting it fall.
“Mmm.” “You’re thinking about it,” you murmured.
“Do you want it again?” you whispered.
He wanted to bury himself inside you until your body changed again. Until your walls swelled around him, greedy and clinging, holding him with that sacred, desperate grip that said this is mine.
He wanted you trembling under him, belly softening, fingers twisted in his hair — whispering his name like a prayer.
He wanted it every night.
Because there was nothing like the way you felt when you were carrying him.
And not just in your womb.
It was like the universe let him come home early — let him feel what only heaven was meant to know.
Pregnant you made him cry with just the tip.
Made him whimper when he slid in.
Made him believe in magic. And now, with the faintest tease of that feeling tugging at his senses…
Were you already? But you didn't feel like that while you were tangled like snakes all day long
Maybe he could change that?
Still the question remained
“How about it Ken?” you said sweetly. “All round and glowing and needy?”
But he couldn’t afford to lose his composure — especially since he made a promise to Geto and Shoko —he had to remain composed.
You began to circle him, slow and unhurried, your fingers gliding along the hem of his sleeve. “You said I made you weak.”
“I said you were impossible,” he muttered, already unraveling.
“You said I was yours,” you purred.
He faltered. Grip loosening. Posture softening. His eyes dropped — to your mouth, your collarbone, the robe slipping from your hips like it had something to say.
You reached up and brushed your hair behind your ear.
“You used to lose your mind over me,” you said sweetly. “I was so bratty back then. Always teasing. Pouting. Clingy in the mornings. You used to say you hated it, but you never stopped me.”
“I didn’t encourage it either,” he said flatly.
“You folded like laundry.”
He exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw tight. “You were exhausting.”
“But you loved it,” you pressed, stepping in again. “You love me bratty.”
“No,” you whispered, lifting his hand and placing it over your hickied chest, your heart pounding against his palm. “You love me because of it.”
Then — a sharp breath from him, one he clearly didn’t mean to let out.
You leaned up on your toes, locking your eyes with his hazel ones.
“You can’t even lie about it. That’s how gone you were for me. For this.”
And just like that, he kissed you again — hard this time, hungrily. His hands fisted in your robe, dragging you against him, teeth grazing your jaw. He kissed you like he wanted to stay. Like he was staying.
You barely had time to catch your breath before you felt it — the sharp sting of new hickeys blooming across your skin, his mouth marking you low on your throat, lower on your collarbone.
You laughed, breathless, triumphant.
And this time, when he did, his hands left you entirely.
“We’ll be late,” he said, smoothing his hair, redoing the top button of his shirt.
You stood there blinking, dazed and flushed, robe nearly falling off, lips tingling.
He didn’t look at you. “Yes.”
You stared at him like he’d slapped you.
You weren’t sure what stung worse — the restraint or how close you’d come to unraveling him.
Your arms fell dramatically to your sides, face scrunching in disbelief.
“You’re seriously going to leave me like this?”
You sighed loud and long. “I even brushed my hair.”
A slow exhale. “You don’t.”
You turned away from him, arms crossed beneath your chest, clearly sulking.
And then — stepped forward.
His hand slid beneath your chin, tilting your face back up to his. His lips brushed yours again, slower this time. Not victory. Not restraint. Just something tender.
“Because we are about to leave…” he murmured, dropping to one knee, “but I want to make it fair.”
Before you could speak, his hands slid up your thighs, parting your legs that were covered with bite marks and more hickies. He kissed a slow, reverent trail from your navel downward.
His mouth pressed softly to your hipbone.
“I said I’d be late,” he murmured, voice like velvet. “Not cruel.”
You felt his breath, warm and teasing between your legs.
“A promise,” he whispered, just before his tongue met you.
“A downpayment,” he added, looking up — eyes soft, serious. “I’ll collect the rest tonight.”
And then he reminded you — slowly… thoroughly — exactly who you belonged to.
The ride to the future Geto’s was too quiet for your liking.
You sat with your knees together, ankles crossed, arms folded over your stomach like they might hold in the ache. Your body was still humming. Wrecked. Throbbing in that warm, post-devotion kind of way. And he—
Nanami sat beside you like a man who had just come from a board meeting. Calm. Collected. Hand on the wheel. Other hand on your thigh. Like his mouth hadn’t just been somewhere far less respectable.
It pissed you off. Just a little.
“Comfortable…?” he asked after a beat, eyes still on the road.
You turned your head slowly. “I hate you.”
That earned a “Hmm—“ he pondered.
“You said that earlier. Right before you cumme-.”“God, you’re unbearable.”
You cut him off blushing at the memory and trying to hide it with a scowl. His thumb dragged along your inner thigh, just once. “You seemed to enjoy me just fine an hour ago.”
“That was different. I didn’t have to walk then.”
His hand squeezed—slight, deliberate.
You pressed your lips together and shifted in your seat. Regretted it instantly. The ache between your legs made your breath catch, just slightly, and Nanami — ever perceptive — didn’t miss it. Of course he didn’t.
He didn’t gloat. He didn’t even glance over.
He just kept driving, calm and quiet, like his self-control wasn’t infuriatingly immaculate. Like he hadn’t buried himself between your legs and made you fall apart without breaking a sweat.
“I don’t get it,” you muttered.
He arched a brow, eyes still on the road.
“How are you so…” you gestured at him vaguely. “Fine?”
You groaned. “That’s not normal.”
You exhaled, eyes narrowing. “You used to be worse, you know. Back when I was all mouthy and stubborn and—”
“You’re still mouthy,” he said.
You huffed. Crossing your arms and Turing away “And you still like it.”
He didn’t respond. Just let that quiet hang between you — long enough for you to feel the truth of it settle in your chest.
You reached for him without thinking, fingertips grazing the silver of his cufflinks, your initial catching the light.
His thumb shifted slightly — a barely-there response, but one you knew well. The kind of touch that said I’m here. The kind that grounded you without asking for permission.
Meanwhile, you were sitting in designer heels with bite marks on your hips and a glow on your skin that no serum could replicate.
“You should’ve taken me all the way,” you said finally. “Let me win for once.”
“Hmm,” he thought about it like it needed thinking
Finally his decision. His fingers tapped gently against your leg. “You’d lose consciousness.”
You rolled your eyes. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
That earned you nothing but a small exhale from his nose.
The blinkers clicked just before the car slowed, turned, and pulled under the glowing awning of Shoko and Suguru's home. The dinner party — Shoko and Geto’s engagement celebration — looked polished and warm through the windows. The laughter spilling out was low and familiar. Comforting.
Nanami stepped out, rounded to your side, and opened your door.
Your heel touched the pavement.
And your knees buckled just slightly.
He caught you, grip steady. Not a word spoken.
“Don’t.” you said through gritted teeth.
“You were ‘thinking’ it.”
He guided you to standing, his palm warm against the small of your back. “Only that you should’ve let me carry you.”“You’re the worst.”
He leaned in, close to your ear.
“You didn’t seem to think so, when you were begging for my mouth.”
You flushed. Pushed him gently. “Keep it up and I’ll leave you to go home with Gojo.” You pushed.
“Go ahead—” he pushed back.
You both shared a quiet breath of laughter — a moment suspended between the chaos of parenting and the ritual of being known.
Your hand smoothed your dress. Your heels clicked elegantly up the steps. You adjusted the hem of your pantyhose over the faintest mark near your thigh — one only you knew was there.
He guided you upright, hand at the small of your back.
You both walked up the steps, quiet and poised, his touch firm and grounding.
But right before he could reach for the doorknob, you stopped him.
You smiled. Coy. Dangerous.
“Just needed to settle something.”
Then, without warning, you rose to your toes and kissed him — deep, slow, claiming. Your hand slid into his hair, mussing it with calculated ease. Your lipstick smudged purposefully across his jaw, and your fingers tugged his tie just enough to knock it askew.
When you pulled back, he looked at you — startled, barely breathing.
You stared at your handiwork and smiled sweetly. “There. Now we’re even.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Shoko muttered, one brow already raised. Seems she saw your car light when you two pulled in “Can’t leave you two alone for five minutes.”
You beamed at her. “Hi, Shoko.”
Nanami straightened slowly, but not in time. Your lipstick glowed like war paint on his mouth. His hair was just unkempt enough to hint at a scandal. And his tie? A casualty.
You didn’t fix it. You just patted his chest, turned on your heel, and walked inside.
He exhaled through his nose — low and measured — and turned to greet Shoko with a short hug.
“Bratty?” Shoko offered, already grinning.
“Mmhm.” She stepped back, arms crossed. “You’ve got something…”
She pointed to her own bottom lip.
And she smiled. “Yeah. Right there.”
He paused. Adjusted his tie. Cleared his throat.
But when he looked past her into the house, you were already halfway across the room — greeting Yuki and Choso like nothing had happened. A vision in heels and smug satisfaction.
Your husband, with his undone tie and faint lipstick mark, simply followed — hands in his pockets, the smallest smirk tugging at his mouth.
And in that final moment of peace before the party began…
Even if you didn’t yet know how wrong the night would go.
Had you known how the night would twist —
Had you known one careless comment would unravel everything —
You might have kissed him longer. Held him tighter.
Stayed tangled in silk sheets and safe hands just a little while longer.
Where he was only yours.
Where she couldn’t find you.
And where he wouldn't refuse you one thing.
The kitchen smells like stories.
Butter and lemongrass coat the air, warmed by the sweetness of caramelized garlic. The heat of wine, the sharp bite of perfume; and the soft hush of secrets only women dare share when the lights are low and their heels are off.
Ella Fitzgerald hums overhead, her voice warm velvet. It floats like silk over the clink of crystal. the sizzle of oil, the laughter tucked between lips painted in shades of power.
They are radiant. Beautiful in the deliberate, dangerous way that makes people take them too seriously or not seriously enough.
They smell like citrus, sandalwood and money.
Shoko is draped over the counter in slouchy cream trousers and a backless halter that hangs low over her spine. Her hair’s tied at the nape of her neck, a few strands falling over her collarbone, cigarette tucked between her fingers, wine glass loose in the other hand. She stirs the garlic lazily with a wooden spoon she’ll probably forget to wash. Her eyes are rimmed in kohl, her brows thick and natural, and on the hand that tips the wine — that’s where it catches: the glint of her fat, unapologetically bold engagement ring. It’s not subtle. Because Geto is not a subtle man where it matters most.
Yuki is chaos in silk. She sways at the stove, hips moving to the beat as she stirs curry she didn’t make. Her sleeveless indigo blouse hugs her chest with a gold mandarin collar that somehow makes her look both holy and violent; Choso was a very lucky man indeed. Her leather cobalt blue pants hug low on her hips, brown heeled boots tapping the rhythm of her teasing. Her hoops glint. But could never outshine her silky long blond hair. Her laughter carries and she speaks like she’s always mid-story.
Kuroi moves like a whisper behind them, arranging platters in a silk wrap dress cinched tight at the waist, hair pulled into a low knot that’s never out of place. She doesn’t say much, but everything she does is with intention. There’s a reason Riko watches her more than anyone else in the room.
Riko is the sun in heels. She shakes cocktails with a practiced flick of her wrist, dress candy-pink and clingy, braid glossy down one shoulder. Her heels sparkle. Her cheeks flush when she laughs. She’s the kind of girl who wins hearts without knowing she’s playing.
Ütahime is wrestling with the rice cooker. Her pleated red skirt is sharp enough to slice, her blouse tucked and pressed, brown boots scuffed just enough to look real. There’s a scar across her nose, but it doesn’t take away from her beauty — it gives it context. She smells like earth and soap and quiet authority.
Mei Mei is elegance dipped in capital. Her navy silk dress looks like it was poured onto her body, her long braids framing her like armor. She flips scallops in stilettos with one hand, while the other holds a phone call about interest rates on foreign land titles. Her voice never raises. Her eyes never soften. She’s as beautiful as she is transactional — and you wouldn’t change a thing.
And you—
You sit on a barstool in a baby blue-toned dress; that hugs your waist and slips too easily up your thigh when you shift. But hides all the marks Nanami left behind. Your heels tap against the base of the stool as you sip a mocktail kissed with salt and chili. You pop cherry tomatoes into your mouth with manicured fingers, not quite grazing, not quite hungry.
Just steady.
In silence.
Which for you… is dangerous.
You, quiet, has always been a sign of something loading.
Your phone buzzes.
A photo from your mom.
Ino, seated upright like a little scholar, his book balanced on one knee. Nana curled beside him, eyes sleepy, fingers knotted into the hem of his shirt. And Yuta, flashlight in hand like a detective, despite the room being fully lit.
The caption reads:
“They asked for a story after dinner. Ino picked the book. Nana approved it. Yuta insists it’s a mystery.”
You smile. Soft. Then slow.
Somehow along the way you became this person.
The one they reach for.
The one who left the party without moving a muscle.
You smiled at the sight, soft and automatic.
But something caught in your throat — a tension that ached, not sharp, but deep.
You flip your phone face-down.
“Mocktail?”
Shoko’s voice, dry and amused, slices through the moment.
You glance over.
She’s looking at your glass like it’s offended her palate. The ring on her hand catches again — unapologetic.
You open your mouth to answer, but Yuki gets there first.
“She’s staying clear-headed tonight,” she grins, licking the spoon. “Which is adorable, considering her head’s clearly across town with her kids.”
“Oh, let her be,” Riko says, sliding a glass your way. “She lives the softness we all pretend we don’t want.”
Ütahime snorts. “I’d live in it too if it looked like Nanami.”
A laugh from Mei Mei, dry and purring. “Please. That man folds socks like he's defusing a bomb.”
You roll a tomato between your fingers, biting back a smirk.
“And he irons the hand towels too.”
Gags. Groans. Theatrical horror.
“Of course he does,” Yuki groans. “You married a hotel minibar.”
“Correction,” Mei Mei purrs. “She married a luxury tax bracket with biceps.”
You cross your legs slow and smug, your dress slipping higher.
“And yet you all cried when he made Osso Buco last winter.”
Shoko raises her glass in your direction. “Touché.”
The ladies all laugh. And once the chaos settles
She softens. Just slightly.
“You good?” she asks, voice dipping below the music.
You blink.
Swirl.
Shrug. “I’m good.”
You are.
But also — you’re centering.
You, in stillness, is a tremor on the way.
They know that.
They always do.
The room eases again — wine, food, talk of Gojo's latest chaos —
And for a second, you let yourself feel it.
This.
Not just you, Gojo, and your mother against the world.
But them.
Your people.
The family you didn’t expect, but got anyway.
You couldn't help but observe ‘Some love doesn’t flinch when you come in loud.’
until Shoko drops it casually, ring glinting as she twirls her glass:
You look at her.
Don’t answer.
But your silence says more than your wit ever could.
The others turn — just slightly. Listening.
“I’m just sitting in,” you say, light. “It’s not that serious.”
“It never is,” Mei Mei says, turning her scallops. “Until the room starts calling your child an investment.”
You glance down at your drink.
“It’s not for me,” you murmur. “It’s for the kids.”
Yuki cocks her head mid sip of her martini. “Your kids?”
“All of them.”
You lift your gaze. Steady now. “Mine. The ones after. The ones no one’s watching.”
You tap your glass against the marble.
“We all know what it’s like to be shaped by people who saw potential, not personhood.”
“I have a husband who guards our home like it’s sacred. A family I love. But if I can use my seat to make another child’s fall less sharp…
Why wouldn’t I?”
Shared admiration befalls on you.
And then —
Shoko, engagement ring sparkling under the lights, raises her glass.
One by one, they follow.
A chorus of glasses.
A clink.
A breath.
And feel it —
The calm.
The center.
The hush before everything shifts.
The den breathed like an old bottle of bourbon — all dark wood, deep leather, and the slow curl of cigar smoke threading upward through golden light. Jazz floated from the record player, the low hiss of vinyl smoothing out each note like a brush over velvet. The atmosphere was dense but easy, like the kind of friendship that didn’t need to be explained.
Geto leaned against the bar cart, glass in hand, the faint glint of a ring catching the lamplight. His hair was neatly tucked behind one ear, black suit pressed sharp against broad shoulders, gold watch gleaming under the cuff.
“She didn’t cry,” he said, smug.
“Yeah because you did!” Gojo shot back, bent slightly over the billiards table, eyeing his next move. He wore no tie — just an open collar and tailored slacks, his lean frame stretched with idle elegance as if he belonged in a museum labeled: Beautiful but Annoying. His white hair was tousled in that curated way that made you wonder how long it took to look effortless.
“Romance is violent!” Geto replied without missing a beat.
Across the room, Toji raised his glass from the card table. Towering and confident, he had the kind of body built from use — not gyms. Thick forearms, sleeves rolled to the elbow, veins like lightning bolts beneath his skin.
“You gonna survive marriage,” he drawled, “or should we start a pool?”
“I’ve got money on no,” Choso said flatly, discarding a card with no remorse. Dressed in muted black, Choso always looked like a shadow with eyes — tall, quiet, his long fingers moving with unexpected grace.
“I’ll take the bride,” Shiu offered, exhaling smoke through a faint smirk. Always sharp, Shiu wore a three-piece suit like armor. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back, and the rings on his fingers clinked against his glass as he gestured.
Laughter rolled through the room. Haibara fanned his cards with a flourish and still lost, groaning dramatically. The youngest there, his boyish smile and bowl cut hair contrasted the crispness of his pressed shirt.
“Congratulations, BRO!” he added through the chuckle. “Seriously. Shoko Sempai is so nice! She would always share candies with me back in Uni.” Haibara's boyish smile endeared Geto.
Geto tapped the rim of his glass against his chest. “I know.”
At the chessboard in the corner, Higuruma didn’t look up as he shifted a pawn and murmured, “To choosing someone who makes you want to be better.” His sleeves were rolled to the elbow, cufflinks long discarded, revealing forearms corded with tension. He had the build of someone who never left the courtroom but somehow still looked like he could bench-press a verdict.
Ijichi gave a slow nod and moved his knight, the rhythm of the game steady. Trim glasses, tailored vest, and hands that shook only when no one was watching.
Gojo had been talking for the past thirty minutes — about pool strategy, himself, about wedding suits, or how Nanami would never beat him without divine intervention and bribery.
“I’m just saying,” Gojo drawled, circling the table with a cue stick like it was a sword, “you married up. She’s beautiful, she’s brilliant, she’s patient and shes humble just like me — which makes zero sense, because you’re the emotional range of a stapler.”
Nanami didn’t flinch. “Better a stapler than a broken karaoke machine.” he bit back.
Geto laughed softly from the bar cart, lifting his glass. “I was there. Gojo sang Whitney Houston at karaoke once. People screamed!”
“I crushed that song,” Gojo said indignantly. “I hit every note. Perfect vibrato. One woman EVEN proposed!”
Toji, deadpan: “Yeah. To escape.”
Choso nodded solemnly. “I haven’t been the same since. Had to lie down for two days.”
“I blocked it out,” Shiu added, exhaling smoke. “My therapist says that’s normal.”
Haibara groaned. “Every time I hear the opening bars of ‘I Will Always Love You’ now, I flinch.”
Gojo blinked, scandalized. “Stop gaslighting me, you manipulative bastards! I was amazing!”
“You think you were amazing,” Sukuna shrugged.
“And yet,” Geto murmured into his glass, “we all suffered.”
“You cried,” Gojo pointed at him. “You said, and I quote, ‘I’ve never heard pain sound so beautiful.’”
“Deepfake,” Choso said calmly.
Gojo threw his cue on the table. “You know what? You’re all sick. This is emotional warfare. I’m being punished for excellence.”
Nanami sighed. “You’re being punished because you won’t shut up.”
Gojo pointed dramatically. “See? You love this.”
“You do. You love it when I annoy you. You’d miss me if I stopped.”
“But you’d be bored,” Gojo pouted. “Come on, admit it. You like me bratty. It reminds you of—”
“Finish that sentence,” Nanami said, “and I'll roast you like a pig on a stick with this cue.”
“His own wife says the same thing,” Toji added with a smirk. “Right before she climbs him like a tree.”
Nanami didn’t dignify that with a response.
Gojo grinned. “So you do like me bratty.” batting his lashes teasingly.
Nanami sighed through his nose, chalking his cue like it was Gojo’s mouth he wanted to sand down.
“You’re insufferable.”
“And yet… you haven’t poisoned me yet. That must be love!”
“I’d haunt you with full volume and no pants.”
Gojo groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You are so emotionally repressed. How does she deal with you?”
The record player skipped tracks.
“Ain’t No Sunshine.” The jazz version. Slower. Meaner. Honest.
No one commented, but the mood shifted.
Not sad.
Just sharper.
And Nanami turned.
Just slightly. Cue still in hand, posture still perfect —
But his gaze drifted.
Where you’d been left standing a little too long.
Glass in hand. Cherry tomato caught between your fingers.
That smile on your lips — the one that came too fast. Too practiced.
Your actions had him unsettled.
Because a moment ago — no more than ten, maybe fifteen minutes — he’d had your lipstick on his mouth.
He’d wiped it away discreetly with the side of his thumb while you both greeted the others in the foyer. You’d been laughing then. Radiant, even — pulling Shoko in for a too-long hug, teasing Choso about his hair, pressing your cheek to Yuki’s with a conspiratorial murmur.
And him? He’d stood behind you, sleeves still neat, nodding greetings like punctuation marks as you danced from person to person.
He remembered the way your hand had slid behind his back as you leaned into Suguru, joking about how he still owed you a bottle of good saké. He remembered the warmth of your fingers resting just above his waistband — a subtle tether, quiet but sure.
And then someone asked about the kids.
“How’s the trio doing? Still stealing hearts at recess?”
It was a light question. Meant with affection.
You answered, of course. Brightly. Automatically.
Ino asks how he could be more like dad. Yuta’s wondering why girls with glasses are pretty; and Nana is maintaining order.
Everyone laughed.
But Nanami — Nanami didn’t.
Not quite.
Because in the half second after that question, something had passed behind your eyes.
A shift.
The kind only someone who loved you would notice.
Your laugh didn’t finish the way it usually did — didn’t warm all the way down. Your fingers around the glass turned just slightly.
Your smile held, but it pressed too tightly to the corners.
And Nanami had registered it.
The way your gaze slid, not just down, but inward.
He hadn’t understood it —not fully. But he remembered the sensation: That you were present and far away at once. Like the question had knocked on a door you weren’t ready to open.
And then — you were swept away.
Yuki was calling you to the kitchen to help with something.
Shoko tugged your wrist and said,
“Come with me — we need to open that wine.”
You gave him a look over your shoulder, one he couldn’t quite read. And then you were gone — swallowed by the soft noise of heels against tile and the bright warmth of the girl’s circle.
He stayed.
He turned back to the game. To Gojo’s voice. To the burnished edge of the table.
But the feeling stayed with him.
That something about your laugh had missed its mark.
That something had brushed the bruise of a thought too tender to speak aloud.
Nanami stepped up to the table again. Sleeves rolled. Muscles tense. Cufflinks in his pockets —
The ones you gave him before everything started.
Before the clan. Before the name.
When it was just the two of you, and a promise.
His frame was all quiet control. A statue with a heartbeat.
He lined up his shot with mechanical stillness —
But his eyes flicked. Just for a second.
And Gojo, who noticed everything he wasn’t supposed to; like he had six eyes. leaned in with less teasing this time.
“You good, old man?” gojo said with some play in the question. After all Satoru was his senior
Nanami didn’t respond at first.
His fingers tightened just slightly around the cue stick —
And for a moment, the sound of the room dulled to a hum.
You were sitting on the bathroom counter, still wrapped in a towel, legs swinging as you watched him shave.
“Have you been going to more of those meetings?” he asked softly, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to ask.
You didn’t blink.
You just shrugged, lips quirking. “Why? You jealous I’m spending more time with the elders than you?”
He didn’t smile.
You hopped off the counter, leaned into his space. “Come on, Mr. Kento. Don’t look so serious.” You dragged your fingers up his chest, teasing. “If I start wearing robes and quoting bylaws, you have my full permission to ravish me in protest.”
He didn’t laugh. Just watched you — quiet and still searching.
You kissed the corner of his mouth. “It’s not that deep...” brethless
And then you turned away — towel slipping just enough to change the subject — and Nanami let you.
A pause. Nanami lines up his shot — a fraction off.
The ball cracks too hard against the rail.
Gojo hums behind him — careless.
“Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone…”
Nanami’s jaw twitches.
Because he should’ve pressed harder.
“Fine,” Nanami said, even.
“You’re not playing like someone who’s fine.”
“You’re not playing like someone sober.”
Nanami took the shot — hard. The ball sank, but not clean. It cracked against the side again, rushed the pocket. Off-balance.
“She’s thinking,” Nanami murmured, mostly to himself.
Gojo raised an eyebrow. “Dangerous.”
Nanami exhaled — slow and quiet. The kind of breath fathers take when they can’t explain the worry in their chest.
“You don’t know what it is?” Gojo asked.
“I know it’s something,” Nanami replied. “She smiled too fast. She always does that when she’s already decided not to say it.”
Gojo studied him for a moment. “Maybe she didn’t want to ruin the night.”
Nanami glared at his brother-in-law “I hate that logic,” Nanami said, sharper now. “Holding something from me.”
Gojo gave a small nod. “How do you feel about her getting more involved with the clan?”
Nanami’s grip on the cue stick didn’t shift. But something in his shoulders did.
“Better when I hear it from her,” he said. “And not from others.”
Gojo hummed — quiet, thoughtful.
And then, softly, started humming the tune playing overhead:
Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone…
At the card table, Choso laid down a winning hand. Toji groaned — loud and theatrical.
“Unbelievable,” Toji muttered, throwing his cards down. “I never win at this.”
“Yeah! Because you SUCK at gambling BRO!” Haibara said innocently with a big toothy smile, bless the kid he was never keen on the concept of ‘rhetorical’. toji scowled at the kid.
Shiu looked over, raising a brow. “Did you think confidence was enough?”
Choso just shrugged, collecting the chips with slow, practiced fingers.
At the chessboard, Higuruma slid his bishop across the board and finally looked up.
“Check,” he said to Ijichi — then added to the room, “The most dangerous kind of silence is the kind that talks around the truth.”
Ijichi didn’t blink. “It’s not silence. It’s retreat.”
Sukuna, ever in his armchair with coffee in hand, let his eyes drift toward the hallway. His suit was dark, the sleeves slightly pushed up to reveal the ink on his forearm — ancient kanji worn like scars. “Or it’s a war plan.”
Gojo turned back to Nanami. “So what’s your next move?”
Nanami’s voice stayed even. “I give her time.”
“Then I remind her she doesn’t have to soften the edges. Not for me. Not for anyone.”
Gojo let out a low whistle. “That’s marriage right there.”
“No,” Geto said from the bar, glass raised. “That’s Nanami.”
The room went quiet again — not awkward, not heavy. Just… present.
Sukuna’s voice came soft but solid. “She can holler all she wants, long as the words don’t bite.”
Nanami didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
Because here — in this room — among men who’d all fought their own wars and chosen to stay soft anyway — they already knew.
There’s no better protector than a mother.
And no weapon more dangerous to the old guard than one who’s not afraid to use their voice.
The conversation fell away, softening under the weight of what wasn’t being said. Somewhere across the room, Choso laid down another winning hand. a straight flush with quiet satisfaction, and even toji laughed at his own loss. Higuruma finalized his rooks position with a calm, decisive:
The record spun lazily, vinyl hissing between the horns. The room exhaled.
Then, from the billiards table — almost absentmindedly — Gojo began to sing again.
Not loud. Not showy. Just the back end of the song, hummed low from memory, like he hadn’t even noticed he’d started.
“Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone Only darkness every day…”
He aimed his cue, missed the shot by a mile, didn’t even care.
“Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone And this house just ain’t no home…”
Nanami didn’t look up, but something inside him stilled.
He’d heard that song a thousand times.
But tonight — with her smile tucked behind her silence, with her voice a little too careful —
he listened harder.
“Anytime… she goes away.”
He stepped away from the table.
And in a quiet motion — deliberate, practiced — he began to roll his sleeves back down.
One cuff, then the other.
The cotton smoothed against his skin like habit, like armor.
From his pocket, he drew out his silver cufflinks.
The light caught the subtle glint of diamonds.
On each: your initials. Etched into metal like it had always belonged there.
A gift from long ago.
Given the night they promised they’d never lie — not even to protect each other.
He fastened them in silence.
They didn’t match the outfit.
They never really did, but weren’t supposed to.
A promise, then: honesty. Always.
Not to remind her. But to remind himself.
Some things, you don’t let go of just ‘cause they went quiet. You just… hold on different.
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