pairing: satoru gojo x f!reader
content: college!au, baby!yuji, reluctant babysitter gojo, mildy suggestive.
satoru gojo does not do children.
he doesn’t do curfews, or structure, or organized religion, or anything that smells remotely like responsibility. hell, he barely does laundry. and kids? absolutely fucking not. satoru gojo does not do kids.
he didn’t even do commitment until you hit him with your on-campus scooter and turned his life into a living, spinning headache. he still jokes that you concussed him into falling in love—says it with that smug little grin of his like it’s romantic. you always threaten to give him an actual concussion just to test the theory.
matter of fact, he only just started brushing his teeth twice a day, and that’s because you stuck a passive-aggressive post-it to the mirror that said your mouth is not immune to bacteria, genius.
(it worked. now he has three toothbrushes, all in different shades of blue, and he rotates between them depending on mood.)
so no. kids? absolutely not.
you, he can do. in more ways than one, if you ask him.
you and your scooter of mass destruction, the one that’s claimed four victims (including him—twice). you in his twin XL bed, somehow hogging the whole thing, drooling on his pillow like it’s your birthright. you in the dining hall with food on your chin, stealing fries off his plate like the concept of “mine” doesn’t apply to you. you in your family’s kitchen this spring break, standing barefoot in an oversized t-shirt while he leans against the fridge and tries not to panic over the toddler racing through the house with a bottle of maple syrup.
because that toddler? apparently that’s your brother.
“you have a brother?” he asked when you first brought it up, tucked into the dorm’s twin XL and very much little spoon, your arm slung over his middle like a seatbelt he didn’t know he needed.
“yeah, he’s an ass,” you’d muttered, half-asleep.
and satoru, being satoru—being an only child with a lifelong allergy to normal familial dynamics, just assumed that meant some sarcastic, acne-ridden teenager who stole your chargers and locked you out of the bathroom. he never thought to ask older or younger, never pictured crayons and juice boxes, either.
which is why he’s blinking now, horrified, as a half-dressed kindergartener barrels past him for the third time, giggling like he just did a line of powdered sugar and adrenaline.
“wait—that’s him?” satoru squints, standing stock-still in the middle of your kitchen with a measuring cup in one hand and a paw patrol sock in the other. “are you sure?”
“yes, satoru,” you mutter, reaching for the waffles before yuji can steal another one with his bare hands from the half-jammed toaster oven. “i was there when he was born.”
“but he’s like… tiny.” satoru’s voice drops an octave, like he’s trying to rationalize it out loud. his hands flap uselessly in front of him, palms up, like the sheer size of your little brother defies physics. “and small.”
you don’t even look up from where you’re stabbing at the toaster with a butter knife. “that’s usually how five-year-olds work, yeah.”
he stares at yuji, who is currently spinning in a circle with a measuring cup on his head like it’s a helmet. then back at you. then back at yuji.
“that kid is, like, five.”
right on cue, yuji launches himself off the couch with a high-pitched yell, completely misses the pillow fort meant to break his fall, and slams face-first into the carpet with a thud. he pops up instantly, grinning, one sock hanging halfway off his foot, and screams something about being superman.
satoru—sweet, ridiculous, commitment-phobic satoru, feels a pit open in his stomach the size of a diaper genie. his jaw slackens. his whole body goes still, except for one hand that very slowly, very cautiously, sets down the measuring cup he’d been holding like it’s a live grenade.
this was supposed to be spring break. cuddles. midday naps. maybe some second base under your mom’s quilt if the stars aligned and the house was loud enough to muffle you guys.
not juice-fueled parkour and existential terror in the form of a kindergartener who may or may not have just bitten the actual couch cushion.
“well i just said that, didn’t i—” you start, but he cuts you off.
“so did your mom get bored and start over or what?”
you turn to him, blinking, toaster forgotten. “don’t be weird.”
but it was weird. because satoru had never seen you like this before—pulling tiny socks out of the laundry, wiping yogurt off a sticky chin, rolling your eyes when yuji screams “poopyhead!” at the TV but still sitting beside him with a juice box in hand. he’s never seen you settle so easily into this strange, chaotic rhythm. he’s never seen you responsible.
but he doesn’t say that out loud, of course. he just raises both hands in surrender, eyes wide, voice climbing.
“i’m not being weird, i’m just— i didn’t expect this. i thought he was gonna be, like, a middle school dickhead. not—” he gestures wildly toward yuji, who is now crawling under the coffee table growling like a feral dog. “—not this”
you sigh, finally managing to get the toast out. “he’s five, satoru. not possessed.”
“he’s the baby!” satoru hisses, pointing in horror as yuji starts licking the TV screen for no reason at all. “why is he doing that?! is this a test? did your parents leave me here as a test?”
you snort, smug. “well, you’re doing great, babe.”
satoru was, in fact, not doing great.
because his first full day alone with you and yuji starts rough.
first of all, yuji refuses to sleep in his own bed. flat-out refuses. insists, with the righteous indignation of a boy who owns two pairs of dinosaur pajamas and nothing to lose, that he has to sleep in the middle of you and satoru or he’ll have “bad dreams and turn into soup.” whatever that means.
so satoru, who just wanted to cuddle his girlfriend and maybe sneak in a tit grab—gets kicked in the ribs, the nose, and the thigh all in the span of twenty minutes. by 1:30 a.m., he’s dragging himself into yuji’s racecar bed with a blanket that smells like apple juice and despair, his long limbs hanging off the sides like a dying spider. he stares at the glow-in-the-dark ceiling stars and whispers this is not what i meant by playing house.
and it only gets worse from there.
because yuji? yuji is not just five. he’s peak five, and highly competitive in both physical and psychological warfare.
satoru finds himself arguing with him about legos, full-volume, while yuji is completely naked and holding a butter knife like he’s about to challenge him to a duel. satoru tries to take it away. yuji growls.
“you are not my dad!” yuji shouts.
“thank god for that,” satoru mutters.
and then there’s the incident.
it starts with yuji standing in the hallway post-bath, wrapped in a towel, eyes wide and innocent.
“i forgot how to wipe,” he says.
satoru freezes mid-sip of gatorade. “come again?”
“my butt,” yuji says solemnly. “it needs help.”
he debates. argues. begs. but twenty minutes later, he’s crouched in the bathroom, dead-eyed and defeated. it’s only after the ordeal—after the trauma, that you return from your errand run and casually mention that yuji’s been potty trained since he was three.
but the final straw is coco melon.
you have an internship meeting. one hour. just one. and satoru, with the exhausted desperation of a man clinging to the last thread of his sanity, turns on coco melon to keep the beast distracted.
ten seconds in, he regrets it.
because the colors are too bright, the singing is too loud, and yuji? yuji’s vibrating with energy, bouncing on the couch like he’s mainlined fun dip. he’s not singing—he’s screaming, every syllable sharp enough to pierce the veil between worlds. satoru feels his soul leave his body somewhere between “baby shark” and “clean up song.”
he sits on the floor, head in hands, trying to breathe. somewhere behind him, yuji is doing push-ups and chanting “fire truck” like a war hymn.
satoru gojo does not do children.
and as he drags his heavy, noodle limbs upstairs that night and flops onto your bed face-first, he grumbles into the pillow, “if i ever agree to a second kid, drown me.”
you kiss the back of his head and murmur, “so you’re saying there’s gonna be a first?”
he groans. “don’t twist my words. i’m too young to be a dad. i haven’t even hit my peak yet.”
satoru falls asleep with your hand in his hair and the quiet sound of coco melon still playing in his nightmares—until yuji comes barreling out of his room and drops the people’s elbow onto satoru’s spine because the lights flickered once and he got scared, and suddenly, satoru’s back in the racecar bed, limbs cramped and soul rapidly exiting his body.
but then, somehow, it softens.
you nap on the couch, and he watches over both of you with one leg bouncing nervously—because what if yuji dies under his watch? he doesn’t. he just puts too much random shit in his mouth and eventually curls up under satoru’s oversized hoodie like a sleepy dog, then asks if satoru’s marrying his sister (satoru says you’re already married).
you cook dinner. satoru’s eats half of it before remembering to serve yuji his plate. yuji doesn’t care. he just shovels mac and cheese into his mouth and beams up at you both like he’s living in a disney channel promo.
“this is nice,” yuji says, eyes wide and cheeks stuffed, “i like you guys.”
and something about that sticks in satoru’s chest.
because your hand is on yuji’s shoulder, steady and patient, and you’re laughing softly when he gets cheese on his chin, and you’ve got a hole in your sock and a tiny line between your eyebrows that only shows when you’re tired, and satoru thinks—fuck. this is the most difficult week of my life, but this? this is too easy.
because satoru adores you, and he never thought he’d end up with someone like you. someone who laughs with their whole body, someone who always answers the phone, someone who’d let a boy like him into the soft, sacred parts of her life. like her family. like her home. like her future.
and later, when yuji’s finally asleep in his own room, one sock on, one sock off, upside down in the bed like a broken doll—satoru presses himself into your side and buries his face in your hoodie, arms wrapped around your waist like he’s trying to glue himself to you.
he kisses your cheek. “you’d be a good mom,” he murmurs, voice so quiet it startles even him.
you blink, caught off guard.
he doesn’t meet your gaze. just keeps twirling a loose thread on your sleeve like it’s suddenly fascinating, and adds, “not that i’m saying we should have a kid. obviously not.”
“but,” he goes on, a little more rushed now, “if we ever did… accidentally or not—i’d want it to be with you.”
“why are your hands in my pants?”
he exhales, dramatic and exhausted. “look, man, i just wanna touch my girlfriend once this week without getting body-slammed by a five-year-old in footie pajamas.”
you snort, loud and ungraceful. “romantic.”
“i’m fighting for my damn life out here, babe.”
and maybe he doesn’t do kids—but he does do you. he watches you carry that kid on your hip like it’s nothing, humming some dumb song while you pour cereal into two mismatched bowls. and for the first time since met yuji, something tugs at the back of his chest that isn’t fear or panic or apathy. something warm. something that looks a little like future.
he imagines you years from now, still humming, still barefoot in the kitchen, but in a place you both picked out. with sunlight and crumbs and someone’s child screaming in the background, and you yelling “satoru, get your kid!” while he pretends to be asleep on the couch. and maybe he’d grumble and whine and roll off the cushions with all the grace of a man half-hungover, but he’d do it. for you, he’d do it.
(he’s already doing it now, isn’t he?)
and later that week, when yuji’s finally knocked out and you two actually have enough energy to not be confined to your childhood bedroom for once, you’re in the kitchen making popcorn, humming some tune under your breath. satoru’s sitting on the floor next to the island, head leaned back against a cabinet, knees drawn up like he’s been through war.
“you good?” you ask, furrowing your brows at him, hands still busy tearing open a packet of instant butter sauce.
he nods slowly, but he’s staring at you. at your pajama shorts and your oversized shirt and the messy bun held together with two pens. at the sharpied mustache still half-faded on your upper lip from earlier, when yuji decided you had to be “sheriff.” and satoru—god, satoru thinks he’s a lot in love.
“this domestic shit is gonna be the death of me,” he mutters, eyes hazy with something that looks an awful lot like devotion. “i think i really do wanna get you pregnant.”
you choke on your spit. violently.
he grins, completely unbothered. “not, like, tonight or whatever. unless you’re down. i mean—look at you. you’d be hot pregnant.”
“satoru,” you gasp, horrified.
“what?” he shrugs, scooting over to rest his chin on your hip. “i’m just saying, i’m mentally prepared to ruin my whole life for you.”
you stare at him, stunned, popcorn long forgotten. and satoru, sweet, ridiculous, commitment-phobic satoru, looks up at you like he’s already made peace with it. like he’s already living it. like it’s not ruin at all.
and later, when you’re curled up together on the couch, popcorn between you, yuji snoring in the other room, you think—maybe he doesn’t do kids. maybe he doesn’t do quiet, or rules, or five-year-olds wielding butter knives.
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