you set the knife down and turn to face him fully. “why haven’t i met your mom yet?”
“ah,” he says. just that. ah.
or, satoru doesn’t really want you to meet his mother because of certain reasons.
satoru is sprawled across your couch, all long limbs and relaxation. he’s watching you chop vegetables with an expression that’s soft in a way he only lets you see. and you love him. you love him so much it makes your teeth ache.
but something has been bothering you for weeks now, a splinter under the skin of your relationship that you can’t quite ignore anymore.
“hey,” you say, trying to keep your voice light. “can i ask you something?”
“you just did,” he grins boyishly. it’s so charming that you almost drop your knife and stride over to kiss it out off his face.
something in your tone must shift because his smile fades just a fraction. he sits up a little straighter. “okay. what’s up, baby?”
you set the knife down and turn to face him fully. “why haven’t i met your mom yet?”
the change in his demeanour is immediate; subtle, but you’ve learned to read him. the way his jaw tightens almost imperceptibly and his eyes dart away for half a second before returning to yours and his whole body goes still, like a deer who’s just caught a scent.
“ah,” he says. just that. ah.
“it’s not— it’s not a big deal,” he says, but the way he says it tells you it’s the exact opposite. “she’s just. busy. you know how it is.”
you don’t know how it is. that’s the thing. in the two years you’ve been together, you’ve met his friends, his colleagues, even his students. you’ve been to the gojo estate twice, but both times his mother was conspicuously absent. you’ve seen photographs— a beautiful woman with satoru’s sharp features and none of his warmth— but never the woman herself.
“she doesn’t like me, does she?”
“what? no.” he says, defensiveness seeping through. “she doesn’t even know you.”
“that’s what i’m saying.” you cross your arms. “why doesn’t she know me? we’ve been together for two years, satoru. i’ve never even spoken to her on the phone.”
he runs a hand through his hair, a nervous tic he tries to hide. “she’s… traditional. uptight. kind of mean, honestly.”
and he has, in passing. little comments dropped like breadcrumbs. my mother would hate this. my mother would have a heart attack if she saw me like this. my mother thinks i should marry a nice girl from a good family. always said with a laugh that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“sato.” you move closer, perch on the edge of the coffee table so you’re at his eye level. “does she even know we’re dating?”
he’s quiet for a long moment before he mumbles, “yes.”
he hesitates, and you watch him weigh his words, watching him decide how much truth you can handle. “she thinks you’re… not what she envisioned for me. she’s never met you, but she’s made it clear that she doesn’t need to. she knows your family isn’t…” he trails off.
“old. connected. she knows you don’t come from jujutsu society. she knows you have a normal job and normal friends and a normal life. and to her, that’s not enough.”
you should be angry. maybe you are, a little. but mostly what you feel is a strange, hollow sort of sadness. not for yourself— for him and for the way he says this like he’s reciting a script he’s heard a thousand times.
“i want to meet her,” you say.
“no.” his voice is firmer now, and when he looks at you, there’s something raw in his expression. he looks almost scared which makes you lean closer. “you don’t understand. she’s not like other moms. she won’t welcome you with open arms and bake you cookies. she’ll pick you apart piece by piece and she won’t even try to hide it. she’ll make you feel small, and then she’ll smile like she’s done you a favor.”
“can you?” he stands up suddenly, pacing to the window. his reflection stares back at him, all six feet of power and vulnerability wrapped in a worn hoodie. “because i can’t. i can’t watch her do that to you. i can’t sit there while she tears you down and pretend it doesn’t matter. and i can’t—” his voice cracks. “i can’t lose you.”
the last part comes out quiet, almost a whisper, and it breaks your heart to hear him be so open about it, but also hardens your decision on the spot.
you cross the room and press yourself against his back, wrapping your arms around his waist. he leans into you immediately, like a flower turning toward the sun.
“you’re not going to lose me,” you say against his shoulder blade. “but i need to do this. i need to meet her. not for her— for me. for us. i can’t keep feeling like there’s this whole part of your life that i’m not allowed to see.”
he doesn’t say anything for a long time. his hand comes up to cover yours where it rests against his stomach, and you can feel his heartbeat, fast and uneven.
“you’ll hate her,” he finally says.
“she’ll be cruel to you.”
“and you’ll realize that this isn’t worth it. that i’m not worth it.”
you turn him around gently, force him to look at you. his eyes are bright, wet, and you realize with a start that satoru gojo— the strongest, the untouchable, the man who holds the sky in his palms— is terrified.
“you are worth everything,” you tell him. “and i’m not going anywhere. but you have to let me in, satoru. all the way. even the ugly parts.”
he closes his eyes. takes a breath. lets it out slow.
“okay,” he says. “okay. i’ll set it up.”
the day arrives three weeks later, and you spend the entire morning trying not to throw up.
you’ve changed outfits four times. gojo is lounging on the bed, watching you with an expression that’s equal parts amused and grim.
“you look fine,” he says for the fifth time.
“you said to wear something conservative.”
“i did. and you look conservative. painfully so. you look like you’re going to a funeral.”
you glare at him. “whose?”
he doesn’t answer. he just stands up, straightens his own dark sweater, and offers you his hand. “ready?”
satoru is quiet on the drive to the gojo estate, which is unusual enough to make your stomach clench tighter. he keeps glancing at you like he’s waiting for you to change your mind, and you keep squeezing his hand to tell him you won’t.
she’s sitting on a low sofa with her back ramrod straight, a cup of tea untouched in front of her. she looks exactly like her photographs, but the photographs didn’t capture the weight of her gaze. the way her eyes sweep over you like she’s cataloging every flaw.
gojo satoko is beautiful. you could see where satoru got his looks— the same sharp cheekbones, the same pale hair, though hers was pinned up in an elegant twist. she smiles when she sees him, a genuine smile that softens her whole face, and he walks up to her and lets her pull him down so she can kiss his cheek.
“my son,” she says. “you look thin. are you eating?”
“i'm fine, mom.” he then gives you a an unsure look and tugs you forward.
“mother,” satoru says, his voice suddenly flatter and more formal. “this is my partner.”
“so i see.” she doesn’t stand. doesn’t offer her hand. just looks at you with an expression that isn’t quite a frown but isn’t anything close to a smile. “you’re later than expected.”
“traffic,” you say, because satoru seems to have forgotten how to speak. “it’s lovely to finally meet you, gojo-san. satoru has told me so much about you.”
one perfect eyebrow lifts. “has he.”
the next hour is the longest of your life.
she is everything satoru warned you about and worse. she asks about your family, your education, your job, and finds something wrong with every answer. your parents are divorced? how unfortunate. you went to a public university? how… practical. you work in marketing? how quaint.
she smiles when she says these things, a thin, sharp smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. and she’s so polite about it, so exquisitely mannered, that you can’t even call her out without looking like the one in the wrong.
satoru sits beside you, rigid and silent, and you can feel him vibrating with tension. he tries to deflect, tries to change the subject, but his mother steamrolls over him with the ease of someone who’s been doing it his whole life.
“and children,” she says, setting down her teacup with a delicate clink. “have you discussed children?”
“we’ve talked about it,” you say carefully. “we’re not in a rush.”
“i see.” another thin smile. “i suppose that’s wise, given your… circumstances. satoru’s line is very important, you understand. the gojo clan has certain expectations. certain standards.”
the implication hangs in the air like smoke.
you swallow hard and keep your voice steady. “i understand.”
“do you?” she leans forward slightly, and her eyes are so much like satoru’s it hurts. the same impossible blues, but where his are warm and full of light, hers are cold as winter sky. “because i’m not sure you do. my son is the strongest sorcerer in a century. he carries the future of jujutsu society on his shoulders. and you— forgive me— are a marketing associate from a broken home with no cursed energy to speak of.”
“mother. what are you—” satoru’s voice is tight.
“i’m simply being honest, satoru. someone has to be.” she turns back to you, and her smile never wavers. “i’m sure you’re a lovely person. but lovely isn’t enough. not for him. not for this family.”
you feel the tears coming before you can stop them. hot and humiliating, pricking at the corners of your eyes. you’ve been holding them back for an hour, smiling through every jab and veiled insult, but something about the way she says lovely breaks something inside you.
“i love him,” you say, your voice wobbling despite your best efforts. “isn’t that enough?”
for a moment, something flickers across her face. surprise, maybe. or annoyance. you can’t tell.
“love,” she repeats. the word sounds ugly in her mouth. “love doesn’t protect him. love doesn’t strengthen the clan. love doesn’t—”
satoru’s voice cuts through the room like a blade.
he’s standing. you don’t remember him standing, but he’s on his feet now. his hands are shaking and his eyes are blazing with an anger you’ve never seen before.
“stop,” he says again, and his voice cracks on the word. “you don’t get to do this. you don’t get to sit there and tear apart the person i love like she’s not even in the room.”
“you’re not simply anything.” he steps forward, positioning himself between you and his mother like a shield. “you’ve been cruel to her since she walked through the door. and for what? because she don’t have the right bloodline? because she’s not a ‘proper match’? look at her, mother. look.”
his mother’s eyes flick to you, and you quickly wipe your cheeks, but it’s too late. the damage is done.
“she’s crying,” satoru says, his own voice unsteady. “you made her cry. the person i love most in this world, and you made her cry within an hour of meeting them. is that who you want to be? is that what you want to be remembered for?”
“i am your mother,” she says. for the first time, her composure slips, just a little. “everything i do is for your benefit.”
“no.” his voice is quiet now, but no less fierce. “no, it’s not. you do it for the clan. for tradition. for the memory of a family that was never as perfect as you pretend it was. you do it because it’s easier to control me than it is to love me.”
she flinches— actually flinches, like he’s struck her. her face contorts in visible hurt before settling back into passive aggression and confusion.
“i love you,” he continues, and there are tears on his cheeks now too, though you don’t know when they started falling. “i do. you’re my mother. but i will not let you destroy the best thing that’s ever happened to me. i won’t.”
he turns to you then, his hands cupping your face with a gentleness that makes your heart ache. his thumbs brush away your tears, and he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.
“i’m sorry,” he whispers. “i’m so sorry. i should have done this sooner. i should have protected you.”
“no, listen.” his forehead presses against yours, and his breath is warm on your lips. “you are enough. you are more than enough. you’re everything. and if she can’t see that, that’s her loss. not mine. not yours.”
behind him, his mother is silent. you can feel her watching, feel the weight of her gaze, but it doesn’t matter anymore. all that matters is the man in front of you, trembling and fierce and so full of love it spills out of him like light.
“let’s go home, baby,” you whisper.
he nods. takes your hand. leads you toward the door.
“satoru,” his mother calls out. there’s something different in her voice now. something almost fragile. “satoru, wait.”
he pauses. doesn’t turn around.
but she doesn’t finish the sentence. maybe she can’t. maybe she doesn’t know how.
satoru squeezes your hand and keeps walking.
the drive home is quiet. satoru doesn’t let go of your hand the whole time, even when he has to shift gears, even when you hit a red light and he has to brake.
when you finally pull into your driveway, he kills the engine and just sits there for a moment, staring at the steering wheel.
“i meant what i said,” he says quietly. “you’re everything.”
you lean over and press a kiss to his knuckles. “i know.”
“and i’m sorry. for making you do that. for not standing up to her sooner. for every time i let her words live in my head instead of yours.”
“satoru.” you wait until he looks at you. he does, reluctantly so, looking like a sad puppy. “thank you for defending me.”
he closes his eyes, letting out a deep breath. “don’t thank me for doing what i should have done from the start.”
you lean in to press another kiss to his cheek, going on until he smiles which doesn’t take too long.
“i love you, baby,” he says.
and when he pulls you into his arms right there in the front seat, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, you hold him back just as tight.
[ an. after writing this i realised this could have been a part of a multi part fic about satoru and you overcoming his very judgmental family before marrying and stuff but eh maybe i’ll write it in the future ]
🏷️ taglist: @ethezreal @astutetwilight @unforgivemn @sunnydayqq @lalawlrd @koral-pink @secretsofchance @raendarkfaerie @kingraspberry12-blog @xznyana @leftrightgn @indom-itus @ihatemynewbangs
janainaart
theartofmadeline
snowghoul
germansingergirl
