honeymoon phase — gojo satoru
synopsis. the elders have always warned you that men lose interest over time. that they’re bound to find a younger, prettier toy years down into the marriage. you think your day has come.
contents. hurt/comfort, established relationship, husband!gojo, pining (so much of it), insecurity, miscommunication, mentions of pregnancy, gojo is a freak for his wife, shoko is the voice of reason as always
notes. im back n this is not proofread. what’s new!!! anyways, enjoy yet another self indulgent piece!
You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop.
The walls of the Gojo compound were made of wood and paper, thin enough for you to hear secrets that weren’t made for your ears. You had grown up used to tuning out the constant noise from footsteps on tatami and shuffling robes to muttered curses from sorcerers-in-training. But today, the voices were just close enough, just loud enough for you to hear.
“Still no heir after five years?”
“What a shame. All that potential, and she retires to become a housewife.”
“They marry young these days, but if a woman can’t carry on the clan, then what’s the point?”
“She’s not a wife. She’s a waste.”
Your fingers curled around the edge of the screen door. You forced yourself not to make a sound, not to breathe too loudly in fear of revealing your hiding spot. It was foolish to care—foolish to let the words of the elders dig into your skin. You knew better than to let the words cut you, but they did anyway, like each syllable was barbed.
You weren’t stupid. You knew that in the world of jujutsu sorcery, women were rarely praised for their power. They were expected to surrender it and retire gracefully—to raise heirs. Instead of bearing blades, they were expected to bear babies. You’ve seen it through countless of women. Satoru’s mother. Your own. And so many others. It was a quiet, lifelong obligation to the clan’s legacy.
You have been married to Gojo Satoru for five years now. Five long, loving years. And still, there were no children.
To be fair, the two of you had married young—too young, perhaps—but he had insisted. He couldn't wait, he’d said, pulling you to the altar like a man starved. He had kissed you with feverish devotion in front of the shrine, promised you the world, the stars, and everything in between.
But somewhere along the way, you felt like those promises had gone quiet. The talk of children, of anything beyond “next week” or “next mission,” had never come. The topic had never once left his lips.
Maybe he was too busy. Your Satoru wasn’t just yours, after all. He was a teacher. A leader. The head of the Gojo clan. A living symbol of power.
He spent his days shaping the next generation, mentoring students who looked at him like he was invincible. Perhaps he already had too many children who weren’t truly his. Too many young eyes to protect, young graves to prevent.
Or maybe… maybe he just didn’t want them with you.
You stirred the soup with absent hands, the wooden spoon swirling through the broth like it might uncover something at the bottom. The scent of miso filled the kitchen, but it felt hollow. Your expansive kitchen felt too quiet and it was slowly driving you mad.
Satoru was late. Again.
And when you hear the front door finally open, you don’t bother moving. You listened to the familiar sound of shoes slipping off and a coat sliding from his shoulders and landing in a heap by the door. His footsteps were slower these days. Even the great Gojo Satoru—your indestructible, overpowered husband was starting to sound… tired.
Tired of what, you’re not sure.
You, perhaps.
He appeared in the kitchen, the ever-present blindfold slung loosely around his neck. His cerulean eyes looked exhausted.
But he still smiled. Still leaned down and kissed your cheek like you were the one thing anchoring him to the world.
“Smells amazing, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Sorry I’m late.”
And without another word, he dragged himself toward the bedroom and collapsed face-first into the sheets, asleep before you even turned off the stove.
You stood there for a moment, spoon still in hand, watching the soft ripple of the soup.
This had become a pattern.
He used to be insatiable—always touching you, reaching for you, teasing you like the mere idea of being apart from you made him physically ill. There had been times where he couldn’t keep his hands to himself even in public. Where he used to whisper sweet nothings into your skin that he couldn’t wait to fulfill.
But now he barely looked at you.
He said he was tired. That the curse rate had skyrocketed. That the weight of the world was getting heavier.
You believed him. Of course you did.
But the belief didn’t make the cold side of the bed any warmer. It didn’t make the silent distance between you any less unbearable.
It happened in a moment of weakness.
The bathroom door closed behind him, and the sound of the shower was on. It was one of his regular short, cold showers. You sat on the edge of the bed, glancing at the phone he left on the nightstand.
It was face down and silent, yet all the more inviting.
You hesitated, telling yourself not to look. You try to convince yourself that you trusted the man that you married. The one that had been in love with you far longer than you had even known. That after everything, you had no reason to doubt.
Your fingers moved anyway as if you were a woman possessed. The lock was no match for your memory. His passcode hadn’t changed—it was still your birthday. You’re not sure if that fact made you feel worse for the act that you were committing.
But the messages were right there.
And what you saw made your stomach drop.
Gojo: Shio, I need your help.
Shio: Gojo-kun, I thought we agreed that calling me just “Shio” was improper. It is not right.
Gojo: You know we’re past that stage, Shioooo.
Shio: I should like to have a word with your wife about your behavior.
Gojo: Ha! You and my wife? Over my dead body would I let you two meet. She’d kill me~~~
Shio: That would be a tragedy indeed.
You blinked.
No.
No, no, no.
The bile that rose in your throat was immediate. The evidence was damning: the banter, the flirtation, their familiarity—it was something you had once shared with him.The way he spoke to her mirrored so perfectly the way he used to speak to you. It was the same cadence, the same wry humor, the same intimacy that had once made your heart leap.
You didn’t even know who this woman was. But she had something you no longer did: his attention.
And it made you sick.
Before you could scroll further, the sound of water stopped. You dropped the phone like it had burned you and threw yourself beneath the covers, forcing your body to still, your breathing to slow.
He came in moments later, humming faintly, smelling like the clean soap he had insisted on the both of you sharing. It is only right that we smell like each other, he had once told you. You wanted to scoff at the memory. Satoru pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head before settling in beside you.
You didn’t move. You don’t end up sleeping that night. You don't even think you let the breath you were holding in for the rest of the night.
Just like clockwork, Satoru was late again.
The table was set. The food that was once warm had grown cold. You sat alone for an hour before you gave up and placed plastic wrap over everything, sliding the dishes into the fridge.
When the door finally opened, he walked in with a bounce in his step. A cloth bag hung from his fingers.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he called out brightly. “I brought dinner!”
You turned slowly, eyeing the contents. You didn’t need to open the bag. One glance told you everything.
It wasn’t takeout. Rather, the meal appeared to be homemade and carefully prepared. It must be a subtle message from his mistress to you.
Inside was Kyoto-style soup—vegetables simmered in dashi, hints of seaweed and root. You had watched the compound servants make it a hundred times growing up. There was even yamaimo, shredded fine and folded in.
“Where were you?” you asked softly, hoping it would mask the edge in your words.
Satoru grinned.
“Kyoto. Had a mission there. Thought I’d bring something special back.”
Your stomach dropped.
Kyoto.
Of course it would be there. In the house where you were both born. In the same halls where those whispers about your empty womb had first begun. You imagined him surrounded by a dozen younger women, all wide-eyed and obedient who were excited to please the clanhead. The thought alone made you dizzy.
“I’m not hungry.”
You stood before he could stop you, the chair screeching against the wood.
He looked up, his smile flickering, a confused wrinkle forming between his brows.
But you didn’t look back. You didn’t want him to see your face. If he did, he might see the cracks forming. And you weren’t sure you’d survive long enough to be pieced back together.
“I miss you, [Name]. Come work here,” Shoko says on the phone, her voice in its casual cadence. “You’re an excellent sorceress. You were born for this. Plus, I miss you. Satoru’s been keeping you away for far too long.”
You sit on the edge of the bed, the phone tucked between your cheek and shoulder as your fingers trace a wrinkle in the blanket.
“Yes, but… Satoru and I agreed I’d stay out of the field. I’m retired now, remember?”
“You’d only be teaching,” she replies gently. “Nothing too intense. And besides… Gojo’s an idiot. What does he know?”
You laugh quietly, but it’s thin and brittle.
A silence stretches between you.
Shoko picks up on it. She always does.
“What’s wrong?”
You hesitate.
Vocalizing the thought seemed so shameful.
When you do summon the courage, it comes out in a hushed whisper: “I think Satoru is cheating on me.”
There’s a pause.
“Is this a joke?”
“No.” Your voice is flat. “I went through his phone.”
Another silence. This one lands heavier.
“[Name]…” Shoko says slowly, “I don’t think that’s possible. I mean—he worships you. He annoys everyone at Jujutsu Tech talking about you like you’re the second coming of the sun. We get it, he married up.”
You close your eyes. You can almost hear his voice echoing in Shoko’s. How you missed that version of your husband.
“He pulled you from the field not because he wanted to chain you down, but because he was terrified. I’ve never seen him scared until you came back bleeding that day. He looked like someone tore the world from under his feet.”
“Shoko… you don’t get it.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“No. Not yet, but—”
“Then you don’t get to spiral like this until you do.”
You sigh and lean back.
“I just feel so... stuck. I’m tired of this house and how quiet it is all of the time. The growing distance in between us. It used to feel like home, but now it feels like— I don’t even know.”
Her voice softens again. “Consider coming back to Jujutsu Tech. At least for a while. Let yourself breathe again.”
You’re quiet.
“I’ll consider it. Domestic life’s been… suffocating lately.”
“There she is,” Shoko says warmly. “There’s the [Name] I know.”
You smile, and this time it’s real—even if it is just a little. But it doesn’t last long after the phone call.
The moment you step out of the bedroom you walk directly into a solid chest. You freeze and your heart sinks.
Standing in front of you was your husband. But he looked more like Gojo Satoru than your Satoru. He was home early and he did not look happy. Once bright eyes were now shadowed and unreadable.
“You’re returning to Jujutsu Tech?” he asks, voice calm in the way a man trying to keep his emotions at bay would. “After we decided you were done risking your life?”
You blink, startled. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to hear my wife thinks staying home with me is ‘suffocating.’” His jaw tightens. “Is that really what you think?”
Something in you snaps.
“Don’t you dare make this about you.”
He stares, stunned.
“You decided I’d retire, Satoru. You didn’t ask. You didn’t even give me a choice.” You lightly push his chest to make space. He doesn’t move but his hand reaches for yours automatically, gently, like he can’t help but hold onto you even when you’re furious.
You don’t pull away. His grip was firm enough for you to know better.
“I thought it was for my safety,” you whisper. “But now I see it was just to make room for your little affair behind my back.” The words were meant to shame Satoru, but it felt more like a double edged sword with the way your heart ache at the reminder of his infidelity.
He flinches.
“What?”
“I read your messages,” you hiss. “With Shio. You don’t even delete them, Satoru. Are you that arrogant? Or did you just stop caring?”
“[Name], it’s not what you think—”
“Then explain it!” Your voice breaks.
“Explain the messages. The dinners. The way you’ve been avoiding me like touching me might burn you alive. I can feel the distance growing every night, Satoru, don’t you?”
You yank your hand back.
“Tell me. Is she prettier? Younger? Is she too naive to see through your bullshit? Does she—” You laugh, but it’s sharp and bitter. “—does she even know you hate bitter vegetables? Or did you choke it down for her anyway when you brought the yamaimo home?”
Gojo looks like he’s been hollowed out.
You see it. The tremble in his fingers. The way his mouth opens and shuts, like he wants to speak but can’t breathe through the guilt.
You step back.
“Forget it,” you whisper. “I want a divorce—"
“Don’t.” His voice is quiet. Desperate. “Don’t finish that sentence. P-please.”
“Why not?” you whisper. “Give me one reason not to walk away when you’ve already left me in every way that matters.”
He shakes his head. “You think I left you? [Name]… I was trying to building a life for us.”
You stare at him, your heart in your throat.
“Shio’s not a mistress. She’s not even close to being my type—unless I suddenly go for women in their late eighties.”
You blink.
“She’s my great-aunt. She’s half-senile with hands like prunes! I—that day, when we visited the compound, she asked me why we didn’t have any kids yet. I told her… I told her I wanted them.” His voice falters. “So badly. With you. Only with you.”
You suck in a breath.
He steps closer, eyes pleading. “I know you’re scared of pregnancy. I know what it means for sorcerers. I’ve seen it, [Name]. So I never brought it up. I didn’t want to pressure you, not ever.”
His hands hover near yours. Not touching. Not yet.
“Shio said she’d help. That she’d cook meals, ones she thought would bring good fortune or increase fertility. The traditional route. And I let her. Because I thought… if I just waited long enough, maybe you’d bring it up on your own.”
You’re frozen. Tears sting your eyes, unspilled.
“I never wanted to lie to you. I just—” He lets out a broken laugh. “I was embarrassed that I wanted a dozen tiny monsters who’d take after you. That I wanted to hold your hand through every contraction and cry harder than the baby when it was born.”
You collapse into his chest, allowing your tears to stain his uniform. “You’re such an idiot.”
“Takes one to marry one.”
“You should’ve just told me.”
“I know.” He holds you up, cupping your face gently now, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “I was trying to protect you from everything. I—I never realized I was hurting you in the process.”
You close your eyes and press your forehead against his.
“I was so scared you didn’t love me anymore.”
He kisses the corner of your mouth. “I love you so much it hurts. It always has.”
You breathe him in, your voice shaky.
“So… you want kids?”
“Only if they’re bossy and brilliant like their mother. Every night, I imagine that they’d know at least ten ways to manipulate me by the age of five.”
You snort. “That sounds like a nightmare.”
“That sounds like heaven.”
He kisses you again, except it is long and slow this time. It’s unlike the desperation from earlier, rather, apologetic and full of everything he’s been too much of a coward to say in the past few months.
When you part, breathless, your voice is softer.
“We’ll take it slow. I’m not saying yes to ten—”
“Nine.”
“—but we’ll talk. We’ll figure it out. Together.”
His grin is smug, but his eyes are misty.
“You mean I’m finally allowed to touch you again without you pretending I’m a curse?”
You smile. “I’ll think about it.”
“Can I bribe the jury?”
“With what?”
“My undying love. And, I’ll do the dishes for a month.”
You lean in close, breath brushing his ear.
“Hmm, two months… and a foot rub every night.”
“Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
