☆ US AFTER POUNDTOWN ! — JJK
⊹₊˚. what aftercare looks like with gojo satoru, geto suguru, nanami kento, fushiguro toji, & kamo choso.
warnings: 18+ content — mdni, fem! reader, intimacy, cleanup, fluff, no graphic smut, pillowtalk, showering, brief discussions of pregnancy and kids. i needed to write this okay
GOJO SATORU.
silky pink ribbons slide off of satoru’s wrists, curling into themselves once they hit the bedsheets. he can’t help but watch you, more wide-eyed and teary than he should be, as you take each wrist between your fingers and rub gently. his skin is flushed where he’d been securely tied to the headboard, and it doesn’t hurt in the least, especially when compared to fights he’s been at the center of.
you hum, thumb kindly sweeping over his pulse point. “you okay, ‘toru? i know that went on a little longer than usual.”
you watch as he blinks, diamond eyes glassy with traces of euphoria. he’s still coming down, he realizes, when your words bounce around his brain after you speak them, echoing endlessly in the space.
“i’m okay, sweetheart,” satoru replies, feeling something in his chest begin to melt when you settle beside him on the bed. the air still smells faintly of sex, though the scent rides away on the breeze filtering in through an open window. it is almost completely dark in the bedroom, to make the strain on his eyes a little easier after a long day—he closes them, automatically wrapping a strong arm around you.
“there’s a new restaurant a few blocks down,” you begin, fingers reverently stroking over the curve of his side, “many of the reviews mention the dessert and sweet treats. it’s supposed to be good.”
fully nude, satoru curls against you, taking note of how easily you fit in beside him. like you were always meant to be here, something whispers in the back of his head. “heh, sounds like you’ve already vetted ‘em. i’ll take a day off next week and we can go.”
“you’re always so busy,” you tease, pulling him closer as though he might just slip away when you fall asleep. as you breathe, satoru feels the swell and sink of your back beneath his palm, and he considers maybe not going to work tomorrow. as if he could take days off on a whim—he might be the strongest in the jujutsu world, but he can’t even make his own choices. then, more quietly, you murmur, “i hope you aren’t overworking yourself too much, satoru.”
when he replies “‘m not,” reflexively, your body momentarily goes rigid, as if he wasn’t meant to hear you. before you can look up and refute him, satoru tugs you closer, making sure to sit his chin atop your shoulder. “really, angel, i’m okay. i can totally handle it.”
he totally can’t, even if he won’t admit it to himself. but satoru doesn’t want you to worry, get caught up with his issues during your day to day—this is simply what comes with the weight of ‘the strongest’ as his title. you huff like you don’t entirely believe him, although you don’t pull away.
“if i don’t pry any further, do you promise to sleep more than three hours tonight? and in this bed, not at work.”
you’re not even asking that much of him. if satoru can wipe out hundreds of curses in less than five minutes, he can definitely try to sleep until sunrise. at home. when there’s work to do. right?
he bites his lip, protesting weakly, “i don’t need to sleep, though, baby. i’ve also gotta get in early to deal with the first years.”
the coolness of sheets in an empty bed flashes through your head, and you decide to push, though there’s a tinge of selfishness behind it all. “please? you still need to rest and let your technique cool down.”
it’s not that difficult to convince satoru to stay after all, especially when he’s feeding off your body heat and you his. the bed does feel more comfortable than his office chair, and just as he comes to this realization, a headache has the nerve to come on, only persuading him further. slowly, like he’s submerging himself in a pool, his body begins to succumb to the comfort of the queen bed, the softness of your skin, the sweet smell of your body wash.
“fineeee. but only because you asked so nicely, angel.”
GETO SUGURU.
“i’ll get the water started for you, honey.”
so he does, turning on the faucet and letting the water heat up as it rushes through the pipes, then out of the shower head in a warm spray. from your seat on the toilet, you can’t help but feel a lovesick, fuzzy warmth building in your chest.
muscle ripples in suguru’s back as he carefully takes down his hair, undoing the band to allow the dark tresses to fall past his shoulders. his hair is impeccably taken care of—he lavishes it in only the best shampoos and conditioners every few days, his side of the shower almost overtaking your own. it’s made up of hair products and a few scented bars of soap, the way a shower should look. (not barren and home to a single bottle of two in one, two dove bars, and a dull razor, like satoru’s.)
when the glass door slides shut and suguru steps into the spray, you hear him exhale with relief. the toilet flushes and you stand, joining him in the shower.
“i’ll wash your hair,” you say, as if it’s second nature. though it seems simple on the surface, he’s allowing you to touch one of the most intimate parts of him—his scalp has only known his own hands, and yours, on the occasion that you help him wash it. “shampoo, please.”
suguru laughs, angling the shower head down so you don’t get too wet. shampoo is squirted into your extended, expectant palm and the ritual begins.
“are we taking more showers after sex specifically so i can wash your hair, suguru?”
there has been an increase in the amount of showers after sex. he’ll make a mess of you on the couch, drink some water afterward, and carry you to the bathroom like a princess to her chariot. you can’t quite place your finger on when, but you’d started washing his hair at some point during your baths.
“the curses really have been . . taking a toll on my arms,” he says cheekily, settling on that excuse just to hear you laugh, “perhaps i’ve been having difficulty reaching back and dealing with my hair.”
suguru’s got quite the mane, which anyone could surmise just from looking at him. but as wet hair slides through your fingers, you can see why he likes your help so much. you’re gentle with him, making sure to never yank on anything as you make your way through his hair. even the light sensation of your nails raking along his scalp relaxes him deeply, and all the tension in his shoulders bleeds out and washes down the drain, along with the suds.
“yeah, okay. if i mess up one of my arms, you’re outta luck.”
“we could take epsom baths together, so then you’d have no excuse.”
it’s endearing, the way he’s able to come up with a solution so quickly. you laugh again, light and airy in the thick steam, and suguru decides he never wants to leave this place.
“wash my back while the shampoo sits, sugu?” you ask, switching places with him to get your back thoroughly doused with water. white suds slip down his temples and he pushes back his hair from where it’s piled on top of his head, looking like a child’s sloppy sand castle on the beach.
“want me to pick the body wash this time?”
“that’s a trick question,” you say, eyes sparkling when you look at him, “you’re just going to choose peppermint vanilla like always.”
suguru already has the bottle in his grasp and is squeezing the wash out into his palm, but he still manages to look affronted. “no, i wouldn’t.”
you turn around, stepping out of the spray to playfully wiggle your ass at him. “i can barely smell it anymore, that’s how much you’ve worn it out.”
“it’s your smell,” he shrugs, shoulders rolling with the motion, “it’s your signature soap scent. you can always cover it up with perfume tomorrow anyway, it’s not that strong.”
“is that why you’re always sniffing me at night?”
you can hear him breathing you in when you’re cuddling at night? embarrassing! still, his eyes crinkle at the corners. “it’s comforting, so sue me.”
you sigh in relief when his hands coast over your skin, palms firmly pressing the soap into your back to both wash you and make the scent stick. a comfortable quiet settles between you, and he continues to lave your back with the wash, fingertips tracing the dents and lines of muscle.
it’s domestic, and entirely him.
he pauses, sputtering and gracelessly coughing on the water. “i’m sorry.”
you turn, helping him rinse the bubbles away from his face. “what’s wrong, sugu?”
“not to ruin the moment, but, well, i got soap in both my eyes.”
NANAMI KENTO.
“i can’t believe you made me breakfast, ken.”
kento returns to the bedroom with one of those lap trays made for eating at the couch, carrying a plate of fluffy waffles garnished with a colorful array of sweet berries. there’s even a full cup of syrup on the side to pour to your heart’s content.
he’s pulled on his boxers, the ones that are tight around his ass, and an apron with kiss the cook in calligraphic script embroidered across the front of it. a smile plays on his lips, the kind he wears when he’s biting back an ear-to-ear grin, and he takes a seat beside you. your excitement is something he thinks he’ll never get tired of. with a creak, the bed dips under the newly added weight, and you carefully slot the tray over your lap.
“how’d you know i was craving something sweet?”
“sweetheart, i know you,” kento shakes his head, laughing around the words. “go ahead and try them, i added something new.”
red blooms around the bite marks littered across his collarbone and around his chest, only becoming visible with his occasional shifts beside you. kento watches you eat with a distinct softness in his eyes, his heart swelling in his chest as your face lights up with every bite.
light and sweet as can be, the waffles burst with flavor, although a small tweak has been made to the recipe. maybe kento’s added finely chopped coconut or a few extra spoonfuls of sugar?
“you’re staring,” you point out, cheeks growing warm. his gaze is obviously lovesick, and strong enough to make you feel the littlest bit shy—a hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck, and he looks away with a short chuckle. “we can share, ken.”
“that’s okay, honey. i had some while i was making them earlier. so, how do they taste? have you figured out the extra ingredient yet?”
“i’ve got no idea,” you reply after a large bite, setting the fork back on the tray before gently nudging it away. kento’s forearms flex as he lifts it, placing it on the bedside table for later.
he unties the apron and scoops you into his arms, pulling your giggling form close to his chest. “i decided to add more buttermilk.”
a warm kiss is pressed to the space beneath your ear. through your back, you can feel his heartbeat syncing up with your own—relaxed and content in the presence of one another.
“thank you for this morning,” kento whispers, adding, “was i too rough with you, angel?”
“perfect, ken. you almost put me back to sleep, though.”
you share a laugh with him, curling up in his warmth. kento’s fingers trace mindless, ticklish doodles into your side as he begins to slip further into a state of drowsiness. “i don’t like to make excuses, but i find it difficult to hold myself back with you.”
the admission isn’t inherently sexual, not in the way it’s said so delicately. kento is right, he does have difficulty holding back, but only because he’s so known. you’re essentially on the same wavelength, finishing his sentences for him before even he’s able to conjure up the word he’s looking for; you understand him wholly, in the kind of way that transcends the surface and physicality of it all. unspoken feelings make no difference—kento’s open like a book for only your eyes to pore over.
even now, in this embrace, it’s nearly impossible to tell where one body begins and the other ends.
“all mine?”
“all yours, ken. pinkie promise.”
“pinkie promise?” he sighs without exasperation, letting you loop your pinkie with his own. if this wasn’t something he was doing with you, kento would be the first to ask something like isn’t this a bit childish? but this isn’t like making an agreement with gojo; this is a promise he wholeheartedly intends to fulfill. after all, what would he be if he wasn’t yours?
“pinkie promise.”
FUSHIGURO TOJI.
“on your stomach.”
you turn back to throw him an incredulous look, eyebrows drawing together in surprise. “more? toji, i thought you—”
he scoffs, rolling his eyes and motioning toward the couch cushions. “yes, ya heard me. on your stomach, doll. don’t make me ask again.”
“don’t make me ask again,” you mimic him, flopping forward onto your belly as requested. it’s odd that toji’s even vying for more when he’s the one who tapped out first, panting so hard he could barely form a sentence of explanation beyond a few muttered words.
instead of positioning himself at your ass, toji remains sitting beside you, though he turns to press his hands into your upper back. faint as can be, the scent of lavender curls in the air as the worship begins—toji’s suddenly a professional at effleurage, palms circling upward near your shoulder blades.
slow and firm, his hands seem to iron out any aches that may have taken root there. lotion spans almost the entirety of your upper back, serving as both moisturizer and lubrication for the easy glide of skin against skin.
“really, toji?” you ask, lips curling up in amusement, “you wanted to give me a back massage?”
you completely expect him to retort something sassy and annoying, maybe even call you a damn brat or start torture tickling you. instead, toji’s voice rumbles low and meaningful from his chest. “had ya laid out on your back for a while, and on the couch, no less. jus’ wanted to make sure you’d be able to sleep comfortably tonight.”
toji’s answer does something that it never has before. it shuts you up, and at the same time, makes heat rush to your cheeks. embarrassment and a particular fondness, of all things, stir in your chest at his thoughtfulness. you haven’t messed around on the couch in many months, and yet he still remembers the small, almost unnoticeable hunch of your back after getting up last time.
he laughs at you, feeling proud to have finally ‘won’ all the bantering.
“didn’t expect that, huh?” toji pauses, fingertips lightly dragging down the planes of your back. before he even speaks, you can already hear the smirk in his voice. “anyway, i wish ya could see how pretty you look right now.”
“you can’t even see my face, toji.”
a huff escapes him, and he makes sure to dig his fingers in, just so he can hear you squeal in both laughter and pain. “just can’t take a compliment, huh? you’re such a brat, swear to god.”
“your brat,” you remind him cheerfully, feeling his hands slide to the middle of your back. “as much as i’m enjoying this, i wouldn’t mind taking care of you, baby.”
he snorts. you’re calling him baby like he isn’t 6’3 and nearly 200 pounds of muscle—but there’s something endearing about the idea of being taken care of too. toji actually . . . wouldn’t mind it.
“oh yeah? and what do ya plan to do to me?”
you hum thoughtfully, turning your head around to fix him with a playful look. “i’d turn on one of the movies i’ve been telling you we need to watch and then scratch your back so you wouldn’t get up in the middle of it.”
“this better not be about—”
before he can begin trashing on your favorite movie, the one he hasn’t watched yet, you bulldoze right over him. “as the movie starts, i’d be whispering sweet nothings into your ear.”
“wouldn’t that just make me bend ya over? kinda defeats the purpose of aftercare, doll.”
“the key word is sweet, toji,” even with your clarification, he still looks a little lost, making the same confused face he does when shiu cracks a sly joke at his expense in front of you. “sit down and i’ll show you what i’m talking about.”
the comforting pressure on your back lets up, and for a split second, you almost wish you hadn’t suggested to demonstrate. toji sits down, remote looking dwarfed in his closed palm, and smirks expectantly, like there’s something funny to say. “i was just thinking. what if all the aftercare turns me into a spoiled brat?”
you scoff as he turns on the tv, settling on your knees behind him. “we can’t both be spoiled brats, toji.”
KAMO CHOSO.
“did i hurt you?” is the first thing to come out out of choso’s mouth when you finally return to yourself, a few crystalline tears starting to dry on your cheeks. you hadn’t quite noticed them during the pandemonium, too wrapped up in the overwhelming sensations of sex to focus on something so unimportant. but now, there’s a warm stinging that you trace to your neck—where he’d been biting and sucking the most in the moments before orgasm.
“‘s okay, cho. i’m okay, just tired now,” you laugh breathlessly, watching the worry drain out of his face, “i’ve gotta get up and wipe off, or i’ll end up getting pregnant.”
choso’s eyes are shining. “our kids would be so pretty, all ‘cause of you.”
you sit up on your elbows, a knowing smile tugging at your lips. this is the same look you give him every time he mentions it, and not wanting to nag you too much, he remembers himself. “okay, i know. have to wait more than five years first, i got it,” with the mildest degree of resignation making its way through his huffed words, choso slips off of the bed and pads toward the bathroom.
shortly after, he returns with a damp washcloth and settles on his knees between your thighs. even in the low light, his movements are perpetually delicate and skillful, a direct result of his understanding of your body, built through touch. with the way he’s comfortably wiping cum off your inner thighs, it’s hard to believe that choso had once been so awkward he’d stalked off mid-sex to let out a few tears of embarrassment.
“it’s not too hot, is it?” he checks in, more worried than he should be. it isn’t difficult to imagine him as a father, gasping as your child toddles around recklessly, jumping off of the couch and into his awaiting arms. he’s the type to always come to the rescue, no matter what.
“no, it’s just right,” you murmur, feeling the sweep of the lukewarm washcloth at the top of your thigh. “no need to be so concerned, choso. i trust you, baby.”
pink blooms in the apples of his cheeks at your words, just as it always does whenever you pay him an innocent compliment. he takes comfort in your relaxed sigh, folding the washcloth into itself and setting it on the bedside table before sliding himself up to lay his head on your chest. “you need to stop indulging me so much,” he groans when your fingers slip into his hair, combing gently though the dark strands, “keep up the ‘put a baby in me’ and i might actually do it.”
choso feels his entire face burn once he repeats a line that’s supposed to be yours, a shudder rippling through his body when a memory from earlier flashes behind his eyes.
“i know, cho,” you hum, nails lightly raking against his scalp in your odyssey through his hair. it’s painfully intimate, and impossibly soothing for him—he could say just about anything to you, even confess something deep and dark without the usual constraints of your daily routine. this is just you and him, simple and naked.
then you giggle, “but i also know how crazy it makes you.”
it does make him more wild than it should, the idea of getting you pregnant and then the concept of raising the baby itself. choso pauses meaningfully before he answers you, letting his eyes close. “maybe something’s fundamentally wrong with me.”
a gooey hybrid of affection and sadness races through your veins upon hearing his words. it’s hard to say something—even anything at all—when you know just a little about his struggle being half-human, half-curse. choso is constantly feeling guilty about taking the easier path in life as a human, wondering if someone like him could possibly deserve something greater than himself to love and care for.
it’s quiet now, save for the steady hum of the fan and sweep of your fingers through his hair, loose and languid. “sorry,” choso exhales softly, tilting his face to the side, “i didn’t mean to become so negative.”
“there isn’t a thing wrong with you, choso. i know you’re wanting a family of your own, and i don’t disagree with that in the slightest. i see a future with you, but there’s no shame in taking it slow, is there? we aren’t even engaged yet, baby.”
“engaged?” he echoes quizzically, voice low.
“it’s when two people agree to get married in the future after a proposal with a ring,” it’s hard not to smile at the thought of the two people being you and him, even though choso’s baring his soul to you right now, raw and all himself. he hugs you tighter, arms straining as if he’s trying to prevent you from slipping away. “don’t worry, cho. we both still have a lot to learn.”
