nanamineedstherapy

[nanamineedstherapy]

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[nanamineedstherapy]

Four Becomes Two

Gojo Satoru x Cheating Wife!Reader x Cheating Wife!Reader x Nanami Kento

Summary: Two marriages, four people, one secret. Love looks stable—until you press your ear against it & hear the hollow echo inside. Or, what happens when both readers cheat on their husbands? Warnings: Infidelity/cheating, Pre-established Toxic relationships/manipulation, Psychological themes (sexual manipulation, gaslighting, emotional dependence, codependency), Therapy depicted but not necessarily effective, Sexual content (not explicit/pornographic but heavily implied intimacy), Violence/blood/knife wound (non-graphic), Death (character death, ambiguous agency), Domestic tension /unhealthy marriage dynamics, Cigarette use/alcohol use. Foursome. MDNI. I don't support cheating. WC: 2.4k A/N: I wanted to write about the ugliest kind of love—the kind you can’t walk away from, even when it’s already rotting. Read with care. For my beautiful modern-day dark Shakespeare @mullermilkshake. Hope you feel better in your rest time, babygurl ;)

The morning always started the same.

Nanami kissed his wife goodbye at the door, his tie perfectly knotted, his hair smoothed back as though the day’s brutality would not dare disturb him. He didn’t say much—he never needed to. One palm cupped her cheek for a second too long after kissing her, thumb resting under her jaw as though memorizing its slope, before he turned and left. The door shut with that soft finality of a man who thought home was safe, waiting, loyal.

Gojo was the opposite. He left with noise—keys clattering, sunglasses already on, his wife tucked under his arm while he half-dragged, half-hugged her out the door before he vanished. “Don’t miss me too much,” he teased, dropping a kiss on her head like some smug overgrown teenager. “I’ll bring dessert tonight. Promise.”

Two husbands, two women waved off.

Domestic scenes neat as pressed linens.

A stranger watching from the street might have thought, "Here is stability, here is happiness."

But happiness can look exactly like routine until you put your ear against it and hear the hollow echo inside.

Because Nanami never saw the way his wife’s fingers flexed as the latch clicked shut—like she was already shaking off his touch.

Because Gojo never noticed the way his wife’s smile collapsed the second he turned away, mouth softening into something colder, sharper, truer.

They thought they were being loved.

Except an hour later, both wives were in the same café, corner booth, coffee growing cold between untouched cups.

“Your husband kissed you this morning too?” Gojo’s wife asked, smirking. Her nails drummed against porcelain. “Mine made it a performance. Like he thinks I’m going to faint without him.”

Nanami’s wife tilted her head, managing half a smile. “At least he’s… consistent. He worries. He tries.”

“Tries?” Gojo’s wife laughed. “God, don’t tell me you’re still touched by the effort.”

“I didn’t say that.” Her eyes dropped, then flicked back up, sharp with something unsaid.

The smirk softened into something more dangerous. Gojo’s wife leaned across the table, her voice lowering. “Then stop acting like you feel guilty.”

They didn’t meet here for the food.

They met for the same reason that afternoon sunlight looked better when stolen.

At first, the touches were small—hands brushing under the table, fingertips grazing. Then it was the unapologetic press of knees, the weight of eyes that refused to break away.

“You’re worse than me,” Nanami’s wife murmured once, lips still red from being kissed within an inch of ruin in the café’s bathroom.

“Worse?” Gojo’s wife licked the taste of coffee and lip gloss from her teeth. “No. Just honest.”

Meanwhile, at work, Gojo was in his regular form—bored on assignment, flashing his phone at Nanami like a teenager showing off.

“Look at her,” he said, shoving a photo across the table. His wife smiling, hair messy in the kitchen. “Tell me she isn’t the cutest. She made breakfast in my shirt. I’m so gone for her.”

Nanami didn’t even glance up from his paperwork. “You’ve told me that three times today. You should focus.”

Gojo grinned wider. “Jealous?”

Nanami sighed, but quietly, inwardly, he felt the same kind of pride. His wife had set his tie that morning. She’d told him he looked good. He carried that sentence like a secret talisman, tucked away under the armor of his voice.

Neither man questioned the glow in their wives’ eyes when they said goodbye.

Neither wondered what that glow was for.

That night, the wives were together after the men had texted that they’d be late from pending paperwork, but not at the café.

This time it was Nanami’s apartment, his bookshelves lined like a confession he didn’t know he was making.

Nanami’s wife hesitated at first. She touched the spines of the books, neat and worn. “He reads this one every winter,” she murmured, pulling one down.

Gojo’s wife was already on the couch, legs crossed, waiting. “Don’t romanticize him in front of me. It ruins the mood.”

A pause.

Then a laugh, low and reluctant, and the book was dropped onto the floor like a barrier she’d stepped over.

By the time their mouths met, the guilt was a thread—pulled taut, stretched thinner each time, but never enough to snap.

It kept going.

Every day, Nanami and Gojo came home beaming.

Nanami cooked.

Gojo sprawled on the couch, dragging his wife into his arms. “You smell like coffee,” he teased once, nose buried in her hair.

“Don’t I always?” She shot back, tone dry, but her smile was convincing enough to disarm him.

Nanami noticed his wife’s distracted hands sometimes, how they lingered too long on the hem of her skirt before folding laundry. But she always turned when he spoke, always listened. And he was a man trained to take words at face value. He didn’t press.

The break came not through betrayal, but accident.

Gojo was reckless in all things, even love.

He came home and chucked his jacket on the couch one evening, and when he went to fetch a receipt, a folded café bill fell out—dated mid-afternoon, two coffees, one slice of cake. His wife’s favorite café.

He stared at it longer than he should have.

His brain tried to play the optimist: maybe she stopped there alone. Maybe she was with a friend.

Except he knew his wife’s handwriting.

The receipt had a scrawled heart drawn in black fountain pen, not his.

Nanami found out differently.

His wife had forgotten to close a drawer.

Inside was a scarf she didn’t own—perfume-soaked and not her taste in color or design.

And when he asked, gently, she froze.

That hesitation was louder than any confession.

The men didn’t confront right away.

They were too methodical.

Nanami sat at his desk for hours, staring at numbers that didn’t add up, trying to calculate how long he’d been blind. Gojo paced like a caged thing, sunglasses off, eyes shadowed.

They ended up drinking together, silent at first.

Two men, one bottle of whiskey, one of strawberry milk.

Finally, Gojo broke. “Do you think it’s—just once? A mistake?” His voice cracked at the edges of the word mistake.

Nanami shook his head. “You don’t leave drawings of hearts for mistakes.”

Silence stretched, broken only by the clink of glass.

Gojo laughed—sharp, humorless. “Can you believe it? I bragged about her every day. Every damn day. And she’s—” He couldn’t finish.

Nanami stared at the amber liquid. “Mine looked at me this morning. Kissed me goodbye. Then walked straight to her.” His hand clenched around the glass. “And I never saw it.”

The confrontation came late that night.

Both wives were together when the door opened—Nanami’s, because she thought he’d be home late.

He wasn’t. Neither was Gojo.

They stood in the doorway, silent, watching their wives flinch only for a second before their expressions steadied into something unreadable.

Gojo spoke first, voice low and dangerous in a way it rarely was. “So this is funny to you? All the times I said I loved you? All the times I thought I was lucky? You sat here—together—and laughed at me?”

His wife crossed her arms, face blank. “I never laughed.”

Nanami’s wife swallowed, shifting. “It wasn’t—”

“It was.” Nanami’s tone cut sharper than Gojo’s. “It was. Don’t insult me by pretending.”

Gojo’s rage came hot, spilling everywhere, words tripping over each other: “I gave you everything, do you even get that? You’re supposed to be mine. You’re supposed to—damn it, I bragged about you, I made you my whole life, and this—this is what you do?”

His wife didn’t flinch. “I didn’t ask you to brag.”

The silence that followed was louder than the shouting.

Nanami’s voice was quieter, but heavier. “Was it worth it? All of this? To ruin what we had?”

His wife hesitated—just enough to show the crack. “I don’t know.”

It wasn’t the answer he wanted. It wasn’t even close.

By the end, neither man stormed out. They sat in different corners of the room, as if anchoring themselves against walls that no longer held anything.

The wives didn’t cry. They didn’t beg.

They didn’t even explain.

Nanami’s wife looked down, shame flickering but never catching flame. Gojo’s wife simply lit a cigarette and opened a window, as if the night air excused her.

Two proud men, gutted in silence. Two women, unrepentant, side by side.

And in that cruel balance, nothing more was said.

---

Six months later, they called it progress.

There had been therapy sessions where words like "trust," "rebuilding," and "boundaries" were repeated until they sounded less like remedies and more like debts. There had been promises—both wives swearing they would not stray again, swearing they had chosen loyalty.

The men clung to those vows like they were lifelines, as if repetition could transmute them into truth.

Nanami listened when his wife said she loved him, but he measured every syllable against the silence that followed. He had grown rougher in bed, as though force could close the distance between them, as though reminding her of his weight, his control, might anchor her again. He hated himself for it, but not enough to stop.

Gojo went the other way—softer, touch lingering, voice coaxing, desperate to prove he could be safe, be enough. He bought more desserts, left more flowers, filled the house with noise so the hollow in him wouldn’t echo.

The wives adapted quickly. They sat in individual couples therapy, eyes downcast, hands folded like penitents. They said the right words: “I’m sorry. I don’t want to lose you. It won’t happen again.” They kissed cheeks, stroked hair, let themselves be held.

And all the while, in glances too quick for the men to catch, in the curve of a smile too private to share, they signaled to each other that nothing had really ended.

The men mistook performance for devotion.

The wives mistook their husbands’ devotion for leverage.

Nanami kept his life ordered—every tie, every book spine, every syllable spoken to his wife aligned into clean lines. And yet he had not noticed the jagged crack forming at the base. He only felt the aftershocks: the empty pause before she answered, the way her smile looked rehearsed, the way he kept telling himself she was still his.

Gojo was noisier in his devotion. He still bragged about his wife as if she were his six eyes, another infinite extension of him. He drowned his fear in jokes, in dessert boxes, in touches so casual they blurred into desperation. Both men were proud, in love, unwilling to surrender even when the truth pressed its hands around their throats.

And the wives knew it.

“Do you think he’d leave you?” Gojo’s wife asked, lighting a cigarette at the café window. Smoke curled upward, pale ribbons dissolving into glass.

Nanami’s wife shook her head, lips curved with something between pity and scorn. “No. He wouldn’t. He gets attached easily, then becomes emotionally codependent.”

The cigarette hissed in the ashtray. “Mine either. They’re too weak for that kind of cut.”

They looked at each other and smiled—sharp, conspiratorial. The kind of smile that belonged to women who understood leverage.

---

At home, the script began.

“Kento,” his wife murmured one night, curling against him with practiced warmth. “Don’t you ever wonder… if we’ve gotten too… normal? Predictable?”

He frowned. “Stability is not a flaw.”

“No, of course not,” she said, tracing circles on his chest. “But sometimes—fantasies… they keep love alive.”

He studied her hand, the glint in her eyes. The word "fantasies" lodged in him like a splinter.

Gojo was easier prey.

His wife sprawled across their sheets, hair loose, skin bare and just when he was starting to cum, she spoke. “You’re always bragging about me to Nanami,” she teased. “What if we gave him something to really be jealous of?”

Gojo froze but came hard anyways, sunglasses tossed aside on the nightstand. “You mean—?”

She kissed his frown away before he could finish. “Think about it. Us, together. Them. We’d own them.”

He laughed, too loud, but the idea stuck because his wife had timed it well and because he was already cumming; his brain decided he might have been into it even if he never really was.

---

It unfolded slow, week by week, seed watered by implication.

The wives did not push—they planted. A stray remark at dinner. A shared glance when the four “accidentally” met in public. A too-long laugh when someone mentioned “open-minded couples.”

Nanami told himself he wasn’t considering it.

He was only… refusing to look away from the possibility.

Gojo, restless, turned the notion into a game. “C’mon, Nanami. You’re telling me you’ve never thought about it? Just once? As an experiment?”

Nanami’s silence was answer enough.

---

The night it happened, no one admitted it out loud.

There was just a bottle of wine, nervous laughter, too much heat in the room.

Clothes slid away. Touches blurred. The wives positioned themselves with surgical precision—backs arched against their own husbands, thighs tangled with each other, mouths meeting as if nothing else existed.

Nanami’s hands held steady at his wife’s hips, but his eyes kept dragging to her face—how she wasn’t looking at him.

Gojo’s grip was frantic, his laugh fractured, but his wife’s nails dug into another woman’s shoulder, not his.

The men pressed into their wives, desperate to believe this was intimacy, while the women kissed each other like confession, like absolution, like war.

The room stank of sweat and smoke and something darker: inevitability.

At the precipice, Gojo whispered—half delirious—“This is insane, but god, I love you.”

His wife didn’t answer him.

Her lips were locked to Nanami’s wife.

Their bodies shook together, one rhythm, one pulse, husbands nothing but scaffolding for the spectacle.

Nanami’s jaw tightened. He realized, too late, that he was not inside love but inside a stage they had built.

He was a prop.

The climax came in more ways than one. Gojo’s laughter cracked into silence. Nanami’s control shattered into gasps. The wives broke against each other, clutching so hard it was unclear whose nails carved whose skin.

And then—steel.

A flash. A line drawn across flesh. Two throats opened in time with an orgasm.

No one saw whose hand held the blade.

Maybe it was Nanami, the coldest one, too ashamed to endure more.

Maybe it was the wives, sealing a pact in blood.

Maybe Gojo, madness tipping over.

It didn’t matter. The room filled with the copper scent of death, mixing with sweat and perfume, and two bodies collapsed onto the sheets, choking.

The survivors stayed locked together in a grotesque embrace, as if the climax had fused them into one trembling body.

Silence followed. Not peace—silence, thick as wet cloth, choking, humming with the echo of what had just happened.

The wives’ eyes glowed with something unrepentant, fever-bright.

The men’s eyes—wide, hollow, stunned—refused to meet each other.

Four had entered the room.

Only two breathed now.

---

A/N: Thank you for reading. This was as much a study in obsession as it was betrayal—if you stayed until the final cut, you’re braver than the characters were. Who do you think killed whom in your opinion? Did the wives kill the husbands or vice versa?

Masterlist

[nanamineedstherapy]

Bodies

Summary: You just wanted his body back after Shinjuku.

A/N: For @floriocide. Thank you for the unholy selfcest peak meme, Florio. Hope you enjoy this, babygurl!

The fluorescent lights in the corridor never changed.

Morning or evening, it was the same rattling hum, the same pale, bruised glow pressing down on the line of chairs bolted to the wall.

You sat in the third one from the end. The same seat as yesterday. The same stack of forms crumpled in your bag.

“Come back tomorrow.” That was all they had told you. Yesterday, and the day before that.

A boy with messy hair—Itadori—passed by with a cup of coffee, paused when he saw you. His eyes softened. “They didn’t…?”

You shook your head.

He shifted, like he wanted to argue on your behalf, but the weight of the hall seemed to remind him he wasn’t supposed to. He placed the coffee beside you anyway. “Don’t give up, okay?”

It was a useless phrase. Still, you curled your hands around the paper cup.

“Identification?”

The clerk didn’t look up. His pen scratched against the page, his glasses sliding down his nose.

You slid the folder across the counter. “I submitted these last week.”

“New regulations.” He tapped the stack with the end of his pen. “Institution rights override spousal rights in matters concerning a Six Eyes bearer.”

“I’m not here for rights.” Your voice rasped from disuse. “I just want to take him home.”

“Home,” the man repeated, as though it were an absurd word. His pen kept moving. “We’ll notify you if your request is approved.”

“When?”

He shrugged. “Can’t say.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. Around you, the office buzzed with quiet: secretaries shuffling papers, the faint tap of keyboards, the distant ring of a phone.

Everyone busy; everyone elsewhere.

You stood there until the man cleared his throat sharply and pointed at the next person in line.

---

The kids had started calling it “your shift.”

Every day, after school, they’d swing by with snacks wrapped in plastic or bread half-crushed in their bags, sit with you in the waiting room until the security guard ushered them out.

Megumi leaned against the wall, arms crossed, voice low so no one else could hear. “They’re stalling. It’s what they do when they don’t want to say no outright.”

“Then I’ll wait,” you spoke gently.

His jaw flexed. He wanted to argue; you could see it, but Yuta tapped his arm gently. Okkotsu had that haunted look again—the one he’d worn when he first came back from piloting Gojo’s corpse. He didn’t say anything, though.

He just looked at you like it was his fault.

---

You noticed her the next week.

Sharp suit, lean heels, hair tucked neatly at the nape. She walked like she belonged here. The security guard didn’t stop her. The clerk straightened in his chair when she approached.

Nanami’s wife.

You’d only seen her once before—at the funeral, in the shadows. She hadn’t cried, not publicly. She’d stood like stone while everyone else broke apart.

Now she leaned across the counter, her voice clipped and efficient.

“I spoke with Shinozaki from Admin. He assured me the disbursement forms were already processed. If you don’t have them on file, I’ll call him myself.”

The clerk fumbled with his folders. Papers rustled, a drawer opened, closed. Within minutes, he was stamping her documents.

You stared.

She turned, catching your gaze. A small nod—acknowledgment, nothing more—and then she swept out, her heels striking the tile like punctuation.

---

The next day, you saw her again.

This time, she noticed you first. She stopped by your chair, studied the untouched coffee cooling at your feet. “You’ve been coming here every day.”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Three weeks.”

Her brow furrowed faintly. “And?”

“They say tomorrow. Every time.”

Silence.

People moved around you both, secretaries and clerks with files pressed to their chests, whispering about sorcerers and deaths.

Finally, she asked, “Why don’t you escalate?”

“I tried. They sent me in circles.” You swallowed. “I don’t know the right names.”

Her lips curved—not in amusement, but recognition. “They expect you not to.”

You didn’t answer.

She glanced at your crumpled folder, then back at you. “What’s your husband’s name?”

The question hit like a slap.

Everyone knew. Everyone.

Yet hearing it framed so plainly scraped something raw.

“Gojo Satoru.”

Her face didn’t change.

She only nodded once, brisk. “Come with me tomorrow.”

---

The office looked different beside her.

She didn’t sit in the waiting room. She walked through doors without knocking, dropped surnames like passwords. You followed in silence, clutching your folders and bag, while clerks and supervisors scurried to fetch files.

“Nanami Kento’s remains were returned to me within two weeks,” she said as you trailed her down another corridor. “Even incomplete, even unrecognizable. The system didn’t fight me on it.”

You swallowed. “Because you—”

“Because I had leverage,” she cut in. “Not because they respected me.”

She stopped outside a frosted glass door, glanced at you. “You’ll need someone to speak for you. Otherwise, they’ll never release him.”

Your throat tightened. “Why you?”

For the first time, her mask cracked.

Just slightly.

The corner of her mouth pulled, bitter.

“Because I know what it’s like to bury half a man.”

---

The man inside the office looked tired.

Older than the rest, his shoulders bowed under years of politics. He greeted Nanami’s wife with polite resignation. “You again.”

“Your clerks are obstructing a widow’s request,” she said flatly. “Release Gojo Satoru’s body to his wife. Immediately.”

His gaze slid to you, assessing. You fought not to shrink under it. “She lacks standing.”

“She has legal spousal rights.”

“Jujutsu society’s interests supersede.”

Nanami’s wife leaned forward. “Clan interests don’t include desecrating corpses. Unless you’d like that circulated?”

The room chilled.

His eyes narrowed. “Careful.”

“I cremated half a man with his ashes,” she said, her voice low, precise. “You want me to believe you’ll deny this woman a whole body? Do you want me to ask the press what you’re keeping from them?”

The silence stretched.

You could hear your own pulse.

At last, the man sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Fine. I’ll authorize the release. But the paperwork will take time.”

“How much?”

“A week.”

Nanami’s wife looked at you. Her gaze steadied you like a hand on your back.

“A week,” you repeated.

---

Outside, the air was cool. Evening had settled, painting the sky violet.

You stopped under the steps, gripping the railing, dizzy with relief and dread tangled together.

Nanami’s wife lit a cigarette. The glow lit her face in brief flickers.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

She exhaled smoke, watching it vanish. “Don’t thank me yet. They’ll make this ugly if they can.”

You pressed your palm against the railing. “Why help me?”

She looked at you then, really looked, like weighing something unspoken. “Because grief makes beggars of us all. And I don’t want to watch another woman crawl when she should be grieving.”

You blinked hard, throat thick.

The ember flared as she drew in another breath.

Then she turned away, heels striking the pavement, leaving you with the night and the promise of one more week.

---

The coffin wasn’t open.

You hadn’t asked for it. You hadn’t asked for anything.

When they wheeled it into the small preparation room, you thought you’d collapse. Instead, you just stood there, hands clasped, the skin rubbed raw at the knuckles.

“Do you want a moment?” someone asked.

You shook your head.

The lid lifted anyway, protocol, and you saw the pale angles of his face, the faint lines where sutures had pulled skin together.

Not broken. Not glowing.

Just still.

You thought the sight would tear something open.

It didn’t.

No sob broke free, no scream clawed up your throat.

There was only the faint sensation of air pressing against your lungs, in and out, a body keeping time when it didn’t want to.

Nanami’s wife stood in the corner. Watching. Not intruding.

Her eyes lingered on you longer than on him.

---

The funeral was held in the courtyard.

Not grand—Gojo clan money could have made it so, but politics had shrunk the ceremony into something stripped down. A scattering of chairs, muted flowers, a black canopy overhead.

The kids arrived first. Yuta, face set in a fragile mask; Maki, jaw tight; Inumaki lumbering in silence; Panda was already gone after his fight with Kashimo had made him too weak. Nobara didn’t speak much. Megumi sat with you the longest, along with Yuji. Later, Kusakabe appeared, adjusting his tie like he didn’t remember how. Higuruma stood in the back, unreadable, his hands folded in front of him like he was preparing to sentence the sky. Ino helped with the preparations.

Shoko lit a cigarette before the prayers started, then stubbed it out halfway. Her fingers trembled once before she shoved them back in her pocket.

You sat in the front row, hands pressed against your lap, nails leaving crescents in your skin. The coffin rested before you. A slab of wood, a finality.

Words were spoken. You couldn’t have repeated any of them if asked.

Afterward, people lingered in small clusters. Maki argued quietly with Kusakabe about security at the gate. Yuta tried to approach you twice, stopped both times, his throat working around words that wouldn’t come. Megumi cried when you hugged him; Yuji had to take him back to their dorms.

Shoko hugged you once, briefly, her hair smelling like smoke and antiseptic. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

You wanted to say something back, but nothing rose.

Nanami’s wife found you later, by the edge of the courtyard where the grass thinned into gravel. “You should eat.”

You almost laughed. “I don’t think I can.”

She studied your face. Her own expression was composed, the same careful poise she’d carried into the offices. But now, softer at the edges.

“Appetite comes back,” she said. “Slowly.”

You glanced at her. “Did it?”

Her gaze didn’t flinch. “Eventually.”

---

The first time you sat together after the funeral was at a café tucked off a narrow street.

It was her choice. She ordered black coffee; you let the waitress bring tea because staying up didn’t appeal anymore.

“You don’t have to talk,” she said, stirring sugar into the cup without drinking. “We can just sit.”

You nodded. And so you sat. Ten minutes, twenty; the silence not heavy, just present.

At the end, she paid before you could reach for your wallet.

“Next time,” she said, already standing.

You didn’t know there’d be a next time.

But there was.

---

It became a rhythm.

Once a week, sometimes twice.

A café, or the small bench near the river, or the library where she brought papers she barely glanced at.

You learned her name, though you didn’t speak it often. You learned she hated alcohol but drank it when she had to. That she always carried a cigarette case, even when she didn’t smoke.

She learned nothing about you you didn’t want to give.

And yet, she kept showing up.

---

One evening, you walked together down the steps of the temple after lighting incense. The air smelled of rain, the stones slick beneath your shoes.

“You still don’t cry,” she said suddenly.

The words should’ve cut. They didn’t.

They just slid into the quiet like another stone in the river.

“There’s nothing left.”

She nodded. “I know.”

You glanced at her, searching. “Do you ever…?”

Her mouth pressed thin. “Not in front of anyone.”

For a moment, you both stopped walking.

The rain ticked against the umbrellas of passersby, the city pulsing with distant lights.

And then she began walking again, heels clicking steadily.

You followed.

---

Friendship wasn’t the word you would’ve used.

It felt different.

Less about comfort, more about endurance.

At the café, she’d sometimes slide the newspaper across the table, point at some political headline, and mutter, “Useless men.” You found yourself almost smiling once.

Another time, when a clerk in the death registry office snapped at you for misplacing a form, she cut in with a tone sharp enough to freeze the entire room. You walked out together, her hand brushing your elbow briefly—not reassurance, just anchoring.

It wasn’t softness she offered.

It was structure, a scaffolding to lean on when you felt your own had rotted through.

---

Weeks passed.

The world didn’t care about the funeral anymore.

Other battles took headlines, other losses demanded mourning.

But sometimes, late at night, sitting across from her in a dim café, her cigarette ember glowing between you, you realized: you weren’t entirely alone.

Not healed. Not whole.

But not alone.

---

It started getting worse with the cigarettes.

She smoked through every meeting now, the air between you always faintly bitter, clinging to your clothes by the time you went home.

At first, you didn’t comment.

Everyone needed a crutch.

But after the third café where she tapped ash into an overfilled tray, you found yourself watching her fingers more than listening to her words.

One evening, walking away from the river together, you said quietly, “That’s your fourth today.”

She lifted her brow, unbothered. “Counting?”

“Hard not to.”

She smirked faintly, drawing another drag. The smoke trailed between you, curling against the night.

She didn’t defend herself. She didn’t need to with you.

---

The invitation came weeks later.

You weren’t sure why you offered it.

Maybe because winter had settled in and you were tired of seeing her shake ash off her coat in the wind.

“Come by,” you said. “If you want. I’ve got a bottle of wine I’ll never finish alone.”

She studied you for a long second, then nodded once. “Friday.”

---

Your apartment was too quiet.

You’d cleaned it twice before she arrived, tucked old photographs into drawers you never opened.

When the bell rang, she stepped inside like she’d done it before. Coat over the chair, cigarette case on the table, hands steady.

The bottle of wine sat between you.

Two glasses.

“You don’t like wine,” you said, pouring anyway.

“I don’t,” she agreed, taking the glass.

The first sip burned, sharp and sour. She didn’t flinch.

It was later, when the bottle had thinned, that the conversation shifted.

“You always sit in the same café chair,” she said, swirling the glass idly.

“So?”

“It’s compulsive. Like a child with a lucky pencil.”

You snorted. “Says the woman who arranges her cigarettes in rows of five.”

Her mouth curved. “Discipline.”

“Obsession.”

“Touché.”

The laughter was small, but it loosened something in the air.

As the night thickened, the words grew sharper, easier. She accused you of stirring your tea three times before drinking. You pointed out she always checked her watch twice in a row, as if once wasn’t enough.

By the time the bottle was nearly gone, the edge of amusement had softened into something else.

She set her glass down, fingers lingering against the rim, and went very still.

You watched her shoulders, the rise and fall of her chest, the way her gaze had dropped to the table. Her silence was too deliberate to mistake.

“What is it?” you asked quietly.

Her throat worked. She didn’t answer.

And then you saw it—the faint tremor in her hand, the way she bit the inside of her cheek. Not anger. Not restraint.

Something breaking loose.

Your own chest tightened. You remembered standing over Gojo’s coffin, unable to cry. You remembered her, standing by Nanami’s ashes with that same stillness.

You didn’t reach for her hand. Instead, you let the silence sit between you until it grew unbearable.

Finally, she looked up. Her eyes were wet, though no tears had fallen.

You didn’t think. You leaned in.

The kiss wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t even deliberate.

It was two hollowed-out people brushing against each other’s edges, testing whether the world would cave if they asked for something human again.

When she didn’t pull back, you let your lips linger. Her breath tasted faintly of smoke and wine.

And then she pressed closer, briefly, before breaking away.

The room hummed with quiet.

Neither of you spoke.

It wasn’t closure. It wasn’t healing.

It was just proof that grief could twist into something else when shared.

---

The morning after, she didn’t call. You didn’t either.

A week passed. Two. You sat at the same café once, staring at the empty chair across from you, but she didn’t appear.

By the third week, you stopped going.

The silence ate at you differently than before.

Not the same hollow ache of absence, but a sharper confusion. Had you said too much? Leaned in too far? Was that kiss some betrayal—of her grief, of yours?

At night you lay awake, staring at the faint outline of his glasses still resting on the nightstand. You wondered if this was what codependence looked like: two widows mistaking shared wounds for warmth.

Or maybe it was something else, something you weren’t ready to name.

---

You started packing.

Not all at once.

First, the shirts folded too neatly in the drawer, the ties he’d never worn.

Then the stack of manga he’d bought and left with the spines uncracked.

His coat stayed hanging by the door for weeks, until one morning you brushed against it and smelled nothing but dust. Then you folded it too.

The apartment grew lighter, emptier.

Not healed, just rearranged.

You didn’t cry. You thought maybe you should.

But instead, you placed each thing in boxes and taped them shut, telling yourself it was just space—space for something you didn’t know yet.

---

You saw her again on an ordinary afternoon.

The market was crowded, vegetables stacked in crooked piles, vendors calling prices over each other. You reached for the same bag of apples as another hand and paused.

Her.

Nanami’s wife.

She looked the same—composed, crisp coat, cigarette case in her pocket.

But her eyes flicked when she saw you. Not avoidance, not surprise. Just recognition.

“Hi,” you said, your voice thinner than you meant.

“Hi.”

You stood there with the apples between you until she cleared her throat. “How have you been?”

You hesitated. “Packing things up. Trying to… make space.”

She nodded, slow. “That’s good.”

“And you?”

Her hand hovered over the fruit before setting it down. “I keep the books. His notes, his calendars. Haven’t touched them. Yet.”

Silence stretched, not uncomfortable this time, just fragile.

You found yourself saying softly, “I think he’s with Suguru now. That’s where he wanted to be. He never really hid it.”

Her gaze softened, the faintest shift in her posture. “And Kento died at his job. Doing what he swore he’d do, even when I begged him not to. I hated it. Still do. But… I’m glad he didn’t compromise.”

The words hung between you, neither consolation nor bitterness.

Just truth.

You both exhaled at the same time, faintly startled into a brief, almost-laugh.

---

Later, you sat together on a bench outside the market, the bags of groceries at your feet. No wine this time, no smoke.

Just air cooling into evening.

“Maybe we don’t know what this is,” you said at last.

“No,” she agreed. “We don’t.”

You turned your head toward her. “But maybe we don’t need to, yet.”

She looked at you for a long moment, then gave a small nod. Not promise, not refusal.

Just agreement to keep walking the same road, parallel.

The sun dipped lower, orange bleeding into violet.

For the first time in months, you let yourself watch it without glancing at the empty chair beside you.

---

It started to feel like a routine.

Not official, not spoken—just dinners that turned into late nights, markets into walks home, silences that didn’t weigh as heavily anymore.

If someone had asked, you wouldn’t have called it dating. Neither would she.

But the rhythm was too familiar, too deliberate, to be nothing at all.

She made you eat more. You made her smoke less.

Somewhere between those, you started laughing again.

---

That night, it was her idea.

“Let’s go out,” she said, shrugging on her coat. “Not a café. Not tea. Something worse for us.”

The izakaya was crowded, smoky, noisy in the way you hadn’t realized you missed. The table sagged under skewers and fried chicken, pitchers of beer frothing over the rims of mugs.

By the second drink, your cheeks were warm.

By the third, you were leaning across the table, whispering conspiratorially. “He used to leave his blindfolds everywhere. Everywhere. Like they were breadcrumbs. Leading to hell.”

She barked out a laugh—sharp, unpolished. “Kento kept receipts. All of them. From years ago. Sometimes I’d find him rereading them, like it was literature.”

You snorted, almost choking on your drink. “At least he kept track of things. Mine would lose wallets. Phones. Keys. Me, if I let him.”

She tilted her glass toward you. “To annoying men.”

You clinked against her rim, foam sloshing onto the table. “To annoying men.”

It spiraled from there.

Stories sharpened by drink: his glow-in-the-dark eyes at midnight, Nanami’s infuriating schedule obsession, Gojo’s habit of eating sweets before meals, Nanami’s refusal to watch anything but serious news.

You were both doubled over, heads nearly on the table, shoulders shaking. The waitress raised an eyebrow; you waved her off, tears stinging from laughter.

And then, as often happened, the laughter cracked.

Your chest heaved once too hard.

Her hand pressed against her mouth, muffling the sound.

The tears came fast after that, sudden as a storm.

Laughter dissolving into sobs, heads bowed low over empty glasses.

“I hated it,” you muttered, voice breaking. “I hated how he left everything half-done. But I’d take it back. All of it.”

Her shoulders shook. “I told him once—just once—that he worked too much. He said, ‘It’s who I am.’ And then he went back to it. I never tried again.”

You reached across the sticky table, your fingers brushing hers.

She didn’t pull away.

For a long moment, you sat there like that. Two women in a noisy bar, crying over ghosts while the world around them laughed and drank and moved on.

When she finally looked up, eyes rimmed red, you didn’t hesitate.

The kiss came messy this time, tasting of beer and salt and grease.

Too much, too fast, yet not enough.

Her hand slid against your jaw, yours curling in her coat.

The world tilted with it—the grief, the laughter, the years of silence—all crashing into that brief, desperate closeness.

You broke apart only when the waitress arrived with another plate of skewers, blinking at the two of you, neither daring to meet her eyes.

Her laugh came low, shaky. “We’re a disgrace.”

“Probably,” you admitted.

But your hands were still touching beneath the table.

---

Five years later, the apartment wasn’t big, but it was theirs.

It smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and overpriced candles.

Every corner was cluttered with mismatched evidence of two people learning how to live again. A blazer draped over a chair next to a hoodie stained with ramen broth. Corporate reports balanced under a vase of sunflowers that should have died weeks ago but somehow hadn’t. Cigarette packs hidden behind boxes of Pocky. A hair tie looped around the handle of the kettle, abandoned like a small shrine to domestic fairies.

Nanami’s widow—now a high-ranking executive whose underlings whispered about her efficiency with the same awe they once reserved for exorcisms—sat at the kitchen island. Laptop open, glasses sliding down her nose, white shirt still crisp despite the hour. She scrolled through spreadsheets with the same ruthless precision her husband once used to cut through curses.

Across from her, Gojo’s widow was perched barefoot on the counter, eating ice cream straight from the tub, legs swinging. Her hair looked like it had lost a fight with both humidity and gravity. The spoon clattered against the carton as she talked.

“You can’t be serious, babe,” she said through a mouthful of rocky road. “Who chooses quarterly reviews over karaoke night? You’re thirty-two, not eighty.”

A sigh. The executive pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Some of us have careers. That matters if you want to keep buying expensive heels.”

“Excuse me? Karaoke matters. Without it, civilization collapses. Don’t look at me like that—you know I’m right.”

“You’re stupid.”

“And yet you moved in with me. Tragic.”

The executive shut her laptop with a snap. “Tragic is you eating my dessert when I specifically wrote my name on it.”

“You mean our dessert,” the gremlin corrected, holding out the spoon like a peace offering. “Besides, you love me.”

“That’s debatable.”

But her hand reached out anyway, fingers brushing against hers as she stole the bite, the faint smile betraying her words.

It wasn’t all banter.

There were mornings when the executive woke at 5 AM, body still trained by years of discipline and grief, only to find the gremlin curled across her side like a barnacle, drooling on her arm. Attempts to escape were met with half-conscious whining: “Five more minutes; don’t leave yet; your alarm is evil.”

And there were nights when the gremlin stormed into her home office with takeout, declaring that if she answered one more email after 8 PM, she would be physically dragged to bed.

They bickered constantly, but the bickering was alive, not hollow.

“Your socks are in the fridge again,” the executive muttered one Sunday, holding up the offending item.

“Not my fault,” the gremlin replied, deadpan. “Clearly, the fridge wanted to wear socks. You can’t fight destiny.”

“Or you could stop drinking three beers while meal-prepping.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Their friends noticed the change before either of them admitted it.

Shoko had raised an eyebrow over dinner once and muttered, “So… wives 2.0?” only to be met with simultaneous denials and a suspicious blush.

Even Megumi—who’d grown into a taller, sharper version of the boy she once knew—had sighed, “You two are unbearable,” before texting Yuji: They’re finally happy. It’s weird.

That night at the izakaya had been the turning point. Too many drinks, too much food, too much laughing about the irritating quirks of their late husbands. Gojo’s widow had mimicked his cocky tone so well the executive nearly spit out her beer; the executive had countered with Nanami’s endless sighs, complete with his exact hand gestures.

They laughed until their faces hurt. Then they cried until the waitress politely pretended not to notice.

After that, they stopped pretending it was anything other than what it was.

Now, five years later, they had rhythm.

The executive handled bills, taxes, and headaches with the mortgage.

The gremlin handled cooking, parties, and somehow convincing strangers to give them free drinks.

Their fights lasted an average of seven minutes before dissolving into reluctant laughter or equally reluctant kisses.

On the couch, the sharp edges softened.

The executive’s head rested on the gremlin’s shoulder while their fingers tangled lazily. The TV flickered with a loud, ridiculous comedy neither was watching.

“You’re leaving crumbs again,” the executive muttered, brushing chip dust off her blouse.

“Relax. The couch likes snacks.”

“It’s disgusting.”

“You said you loved me.”

“I love you, unfortunately. Not your habits.”

The gremlin laughed, pressing a kiss against her jaw—quick, warm, irritatingly sweet.

They weren’t grieving women anymore. They weren’t defined by the men they once loved or the funerals they survived.

They were two people who had built something messy, stubborn, alive.

Grumpy and sunshine. Workaholic and chaos.

Balance, in their own crooked way.

The executive shifted against the couch, eyes on the flickering TV but voice softer than usual. “Do you ever wonder what they’d think if they saw us now?”

The gremlin grinned, head tipping back against the cushions. “What makes you think they’re not? Mine was a pervert. I can feel him watching.”

The executive groaned, burying her face in her hands, but the laughter caught anyway, warm and reluctant.

---

A/N: Who do you think watches them more? Gojo or Nanami?

Masterlist

[nanamineedstherapy]

Four Becomes Two

Gojo Satoru x Cheating Wife!Reader x Cheating Wife!Reader x Nanami Kento

Summary: Two marriages, four people, one secret. Love looks stable—until you press your ear against it & hear the hollow echo inside. Or, what happens when both readers cheat on their husbands? Warnings: Infidelity/cheating, Pre-established Toxic relationships/manipulation, Psychological themes (sexual manipulation, gaslighting, emotional dependence, codependency), Therapy depicted but not necessarily effective, Sexual content (not explicit/pornographic but heavily implied intimacy), Violence/blood/knife wound (non-graphic), Death (character death, ambiguous agency), Domestic tension /unhealthy marriage dynamics, Cigarette use/alcohol use. Foursome. MDNI. I don't support cheating. WC: 2.4k A/N: I wanted to write about the ugliest kind of love—the kind you can’t walk away from, even when it’s already rotting. Read with care. For my beautiful modern-day dark Shakespeare @mullermilkshake. Hope you feel better in your rest time, babygurl ;)

The morning always started the same.

Nanami kissed his wife goodbye at the door, his tie perfectly knotted, his hair smoothed back as though the day’s brutality would not dare disturb him. He didn’t say much—he never needed to. One palm cupped her cheek for a second too long after kissing her, thumb resting under her jaw as though memorizing its slope, before he turned and left. The door shut with that soft finality of a man who thought home was safe, waiting, loyal.

Gojo was the opposite. He left with noise—keys clattering, sunglasses already on, his wife tucked under his arm while he half-dragged, half-hugged her out the door before he vanished. “Don’t miss me too much,” he teased, dropping a kiss on her head like some smug overgrown teenager. “I’ll bring dessert tonight. Promise.”

Two husbands, two women waved off.

Domestic scenes neat as pressed linens.

A stranger watching from the street might have thought, "Here is stability, here is happiness."

But happiness can look exactly like routine until you put your ear against it and hear the hollow echo inside.

Because Nanami never saw the way his wife’s fingers flexed as the latch clicked shut—like she was already shaking off his touch.

Because Gojo never noticed the way his wife’s smile collapsed the second he turned away, mouth softening into something colder, sharper, truer.

They thought they were being loved.

Except an hour later, both wives were in the same café, corner booth, coffee growing cold between untouched cups.

“Your husband kissed you this morning too?” Gojo’s wife asked, smirking. Her nails drummed against porcelain. “Mine made it a performance. Like he thinks I’m going to faint without him.”

Nanami’s wife tilted her head, managing half a smile. “At least he’s… consistent. He worries. He tries.”

“Tries?” Gojo’s wife laughed. “God, don’t tell me you’re still touched by the effort.”

“I didn’t say that.” Her eyes dropped, then flicked back up, sharp with something unsaid.

The smirk softened into something more dangerous. Gojo’s wife leaned across the table, her voice lowering. “Then stop acting like you feel guilty.”

They didn’t meet here for the food.

They met for the same reason that afternoon sunlight looked better when stolen.

At first, the touches were small—hands brushing under the table, fingertips grazing. Then it was the unapologetic press of knees, the weight of eyes that refused to break away.

“You’re worse than me,” Nanami’s wife murmured once, lips still red from being kissed within an inch of ruin in the café’s bathroom.

“Worse?” Gojo’s wife licked the taste of coffee and lip gloss from her teeth. “No. Just honest.”

Meanwhile, at work, Gojo was in his regular form—bored on assignment, flashing his phone at Nanami like a teenager showing off.

“Look at her,” he said, shoving a photo across the table. His wife smiling, hair messy in the kitchen. “Tell me she isn’t the cutest. She made breakfast in my shirt. I’m so gone for her.”

Nanami didn’t even glance up from his paperwork. “You’ve told me that three times today. You should focus.”

Gojo grinned wider. “Jealous?”

Nanami sighed, but quietly, inwardly, he felt the same kind of pride. His wife had set his tie that morning. She’d told him he looked good. He carried that sentence like a secret talisman, tucked away under the armor of his voice.

Neither man questioned the glow in their wives’ eyes when they said goodbye.

Neither wondered what that glow was for.

That night, the wives were together after the men had texted that they’d be late from pending paperwork, but not at the café.

This time it was Nanami’s apartment, his bookshelves lined like a confession he didn’t know he was making.

Nanami’s wife hesitated at first. She touched the spines of the books, neat and worn. “He reads this one every winter,” she murmured, pulling one down.

Gojo’s wife was already on the couch, legs crossed, waiting. “Don’t romanticize him in front of me. It ruins the mood.”

A pause.

Then a laugh, low and reluctant, and the book was dropped onto the floor like a barrier she’d stepped over.

By the time their mouths met, the guilt was a thread—pulled taut, stretched thinner each time, but never enough to snap.

It kept going.

Every day, Nanami and Gojo came home beaming.

Nanami cooked.

Gojo sprawled on the couch, dragging his wife into his arms. “You smell like coffee,” he teased once, nose buried in her hair.

“Don’t I always?” She shot back, tone dry, but her smile was convincing enough to disarm him.

Nanami noticed his wife’s distracted hands sometimes, how they lingered too long on the hem of her skirt before folding laundry. But she always turned when he spoke, always listened. And he was a man trained to take words at face value. He didn’t press.

The break came not through betrayal, but accident.

Gojo was reckless in all things, even love.

He came home and chucked his jacket on the couch one evening, and when he went to fetch a receipt, a folded café bill fell out—dated mid-afternoon, two coffees, one slice of cake. His wife’s favorite café.

He stared at it longer than he should have.

His brain tried to play the optimist: maybe she stopped there alone. Maybe she was with a friend.

Except he knew his wife’s handwriting.

The receipt had a scrawled heart drawn in black fountain pen, not his.

Nanami found out differently.

His wife had forgotten to close a drawer.

Inside was a scarf she didn’t own—perfume-soaked and not her taste in color or design.

And when he asked, gently, she froze.

That hesitation was louder than any confession.

The men didn’t confront right away.

They were too methodical.

Nanami sat at his desk for hours, staring at numbers that didn’t add up, trying to calculate how long he’d been blind. Gojo paced like a caged thing, sunglasses off, eyes shadowed.

They ended up drinking together, silent at first.

Two men, one bottle of whiskey, one of strawberry milk.

Finally, Gojo broke. “Do you think it’s—just once? A mistake?” His voice cracked at the edges of the word mistake.

Nanami shook his head. “You don’t leave drawings of hearts for mistakes.”

Silence stretched, broken only by the clink of glass.

Gojo laughed—sharp, humorless. “Can you believe it? I bragged about her every day. Every damn day. And she’s—” He couldn’t finish.

Nanami stared at the amber liquid. “Mine looked at me this morning. Kissed me goodbye. Then walked straight to her.” His hand clenched around the glass. “And I never saw it.”

The confrontation came late that night.

Both wives were together when the door opened—Nanami’s, because she thought he’d be home late.

He wasn’t. Neither was Gojo.

They stood in the doorway, silent, watching their wives flinch only for a second before their expressions steadied into something unreadable.

Gojo spoke first, voice low and dangerous in a way it rarely was. “So this is funny to you? All the times I said I loved you? All the times I thought I was lucky? You sat here—together—and laughed at me?”

His wife crossed her arms, face blank. “I never laughed.”

Nanami’s wife swallowed, shifting. “It wasn’t—”

“It was.” Nanami’s tone cut sharper than Gojo’s. “It was. Don’t insult me by pretending.”

Gojo’s rage came hot, spilling everywhere, words tripping over each other: “I gave you everything, do you even get that? You’re supposed to be mine. You’re supposed to—damn it, I bragged about you, I made you my whole life, and this—this is what you do?”

His wife didn’t flinch. “I didn’t ask you to brag.”

The silence that followed was louder than the shouting.

Nanami’s voice was quieter, but heavier. “Was it worth it? All of this? To ruin what we had?”

His wife hesitated—just enough to show the crack. “I don’t know.”

It wasn’t the answer he wanted. It wasn’t even close.

By the end, neither man stormed out. They sat in different corners of the room, as if anchoring themselves against walls that no longer held anything.

The wives didn’t cry. They didn’t beg.

They didn’t even explain.

Nanami’s wife looked down, shame flickering but never catching flame. Gojo’s wife simply lit a cigarette and opened a window, as if the night air excused her.

Two proud men, gutted in silence. Two women, unrepentant, side by side.

And in that cruel balance, nothing more was said.

---

Six months later, they called it progress.

There had been therapy sessions where words like "trust," "rebuilding," and "boundaries" were repeated until they sounded less like remedies and more like debts. There had been promises—both wives swearing they would not stray again, swearing they had chosen loyalty.

The men clung to those vows like they were lifelines, as if repetition could transmute them into truth.

Nanami listened when his wife said she loved him, but he measured every syllable against the silence that followed. He had grown rougher in bed, as though force could close the distance between them, as though reminding her of his weight, his control, might anchor her again. He hated himself for it, but not enough to stop.

Gojo went the other way—softer, touch lingering, voice coaxing, desperate to prove he could be safe, be enough. He bought more desserts, left more flowers, filled the house with noise so the hollow in him wouldn’t echo.

The wives adapted quickly. They sat in individual couples therapy, eyes downcast, hands folded like penitents. They said the right words: “I’m sorry. I don’t want to lose you. It won’t happen again.” They kissed cheeks, stroked hair, let themselves be held.

And all the while, in glances too quick for the men to catch, in the curve of a smile too private to share, they signaled to each other that nothing had really ended.

The men mistook performance for devotion.

The wives mistook their husbands’ devotion for leverage.

Nanami kept his life ordered—every tie, every book spine, every syllable spoken to his wife aligned into clean lines. And yet he had not noticed the jagged crack forming at the base. He only felt the aftershocks: the empty pause before she answered, the way her smile looked rehearsed, the way he kept telling himself she was still his.

Gojo was noisier in his devotion. He still bragged about his wife as if she were his six eyes, another infinite extension of him. He drowned his fear in jokes, in dessert boxes, in touches so casual they blurred into desperation. Both men were proud, in love, unwilling to surrender even when the truth pressed its hands around their throats.

And the wives knew it.

“Do you think he’d leave you?” Gojo’s wife asked, lighting a cigarette at the café window. Smoke curled upward, pale ribbons dissolving into glass.

Nanami’s wife shook her head, lips curved with something between pity and scorn. “No. He wouldn’t. He gets attached easily, then becomes emotionally codependent.”

The cigarette hissed in the ashtray. “Mine either. They’re too weak for that kind of cut.”

They looked at each other and smiled—sharp, conspiratorial. The kind of smile that belonged to women who understood leverage.

---

At home, the script began.

“Kento,” his wife murmured one night, curling against him with practiced warmth. “Don’t you ever wonder… if we’ve gotten too… normal? Predictable?”

He frowned. “Stability is not a flaw.”

“No, of course not,” she said, tracing circles on his chest. “But sometimes—fantasies… they keep love alive.”

He studied her hand, the glint in her eyes. The word "fantasies" lodged in him like a splinter.

Gojo was easier prey.

His wife sprawled across their sheets, hair loose, skin bare and just when he was starting to cum, she spoke. “You’re always bragging about me to Nanami,” she teased. “What if we gave him something to really be jealous of?”

Gojo froze but came hard anyways, sunglasses tossed aside on the nightstand. “You mean—?”

She kissed his frown away before he could finish. “Think about it. Us, together. Them. We’d own them.”

He laughed, too loud, but the idea stuck because his wife had timed it well and because he was already cumming; his brain decided he might have been into it even if he never really was.

---

It unfolded slow, week by week, seed watered by implication.

The wives did not push—they planted. A stray remark at dinner. A shared glance when the four “accidentally” met in public. A too-long laugh when someone mentioned “open-minded couples.”

Nanami told himself he wasn’t considering it.

He was only… refusing to look away from the possibility.

Gojo, restless, turned the notion into a game. “C’mon, Nanami. You’re telling me you’ve never thought about it? Just once? As an experiment?”

Nanami’s silence was answer enough.

---

The night it happened, no one admitted it out loud.

There was just a bottle of wine, nervous laughter, too much heat in the room.

Clothes slid away. Touches blurred. The wives positioned themselves with surgical precision—backs arched against their own husbands, thighs tangled with each other, mouths meeting as if nothing else existed.

Nanami’s hands held steady at his wife’s hips, but his eyes kept dragging to her face—how she wasn’t looking at him.

Gojo’s grip was frantic, his laugh fractured, but his wife’s nails dug into another woman’s shoulder, not his.

The men pressed into their wives, desperate to believe this was intimacy, while the women kissed each other like confession, like absolution, like war.

The room stank of sweat and smoke and something darker: inevitability.

At the precipice, Gojo whispered—half delirious—“This is insane, but god, I love you.”

His wife didn’t answer him.

Her lips were locked to Nanami’s wife.

Their bodies shook together, one rhythm, one pulse, husbands nothing but scaffolding for the spectacle.

Nanami’s jaw tightened. He realized, too late, that he was not inside love but inside a stage they had built.

He was a prop.

The climax came in more ways than one. Gojo’s laughter cracked into silence. Nanami’s control shattered into gasps. The wives broke against each other, clutching so hard it was unclear whose nails carved whose skin.

And then—steel.

A flash. A line drawn across flesh. Two throats opened in time with an orgasm.

No one saw whose hand held the blade.

Maybe it was Nanami, the coldest one, too ashamed to endure more.

Maybe it was the wives, sealing a pact in blood.

Maybe Gojo, madness tipping over.

It didn’t matter. The room filled with the copper scent of death, mixing with sweat and perfume, and two bodies collapsed onto the sheets, choking.

The survivors stayed locked together in a grotesque embrace, as if the climax had fused them into one trembling body.

Silence followed. Not peace—silence, thick as wet cloth, choking, humming with the echo of what had just happened.

The wives’ eyes glowed with something unrepentant, fever-bright.

The men’s eyes—wide, hollow, stunned—refused to meet each other.

Four had entered the room.

Only two breathed now.

---

A/N: Thank you for reading. This was as much a study in obsession as it was betrayal—if you stayed until the final cut, you’re braver than the characters were. Who do you think killed whom in your opinion? Did the wives kill the husbands or vice versa?

Masterlist

[nanamineedstherapy]

Bodies

Summary: You just wanted his body back after Shinjuku.

A/N: For @floriocide. Thank you for the unholy selfcest peak meme, Florio. Hope you enjoy this, babygurl!

The fluorescent lights in the corridor never changed.

Morning or evening, it was the same rattling hum, the same pale, bruised glow pressing down on the line of chairs bolted to the wall.

You sat in the third one from the end. The same seat as yesterday. The same stack of forms crumpled in your bag.

“Come back tomorrow.” That was all they had told you. Yesterday, and the day before that.

A boy with messy hair—Itadori—passed by with a cup of coffee, paused when he saw you. His eyes softened. “They didn’t…?”

You shook your head.

He shifted, like he wanted to argue on your behalf, but the weight of the hall seemed to remind him he wasn’t supposed to. He placed the coffee beside you anyway. “Don’t give up, okay?”

It was a useless phrase. Still, you curled your hands around the paper cup.

“Identification?”

The clerk didn’t look up. His pen scratched against the page, his glasses sliding down his nose.

You slid the folder across the counter. “I submitted these last week.”

“New regulations.” He tapped the stack with the end of his pen. “Institution rights override spousal rights in matters concerning a Six Eyes bearer.”

“I’m not here for rights.” Your voice rasped from disuse. “I just want to take him home.”

“Home,” the man repeated, as though it were an absurd word. His pen kept moving. “We’ll notify you if your request is approved.”

“When?”

He shrugged. “Can’t say.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. Around you, the office buzzed with quiet: secretaries shuffling papers, the faint tap of keyboards, the distant ring of a phone.

Everyone busy; everyone elsewhere.

You stood there until the man cleared his throat sharply and pointed at the next person in line.

---

The kids had started calling it “your shift.”

Every day, after school, they’d swing by with snacks wrapped in plastic or bread half-crushed in their bags, sit with you in the waiting room until the security guard ushered them out.

Megumi leaned against the wall, arms crossed, voice low so no one else could hear. “They’re stalling. It’s what they do when they don’t want to say no outright.”

“Then I’ll wait,” you spoke gently.

His jaw flexed. He wanted to argue; you could see it, but Yuta tapped his arm gently. Okkotsu had that haunted look again—the one he’d worn when he first came back from piloting Gojo’s corpse. He didn’t say anything, though.

He just looked at you like it was his fault.

---

You noticed her the next week.

Sharp suit, lean heels, hair tucked neatly at the nape. She walked like she belonged here. The security guard didn’t stop her. The clerk straightened in his chair when she approached.

Nanami’s wife.

You’d only seen her once before—at the funeral, in the shadows. She hadn’t cried, not publicly. She’d stood like stone while everyone else broke apart.

Now she leaned across the counter, her voice clipped and efficient.

“I spoke with Shinozaki from Admin. He assured me the disbursement forms were already processed. If you don’t have them on file, I’ll call him myself.”

The clerk fumbled with his folders. Papers rustled, a drawer opened, closed. Within minutes, he was stamping her documents.

You stared.

She turned, catching your gaze. A small nod—acknowledgment, nothing more—and then she swept out, her heels striking the tile like punctuation.

---

The next day, you saw her again.

This time, she noticed you first. She stopped by your chair, studied the untouched coffee cooling at your feet. “You’ve been coming here every day.”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Three weeks.”

Her brow furrowed faintly. “And?”

“They say tomorrow. Every time.”

Silence.

People moved around you both, secretaries and clerks with files pressed to their chests, whispering about sorcerers and deaths.

Finally, she asked, “Why don’t you escalate?”

“I tried. They sent me in circles.” You swallowed. “I don’t know the right names.”

Her lips curved—not in amusement, but recognition. “They expect you not to.”

You didn’t answer.

She glanced at your crumpled folder, then back at you. “What’s your husband’s name?”

The question hit like a slap.

Everyone knew. Everyone.

Yet hearing it framed so plainly scraped something raw.

“Gojo Satoru.”

Her face didn’t change.

She only nodded once, brisk. “Come with me tomorrow.”

---

The office looked different beside her.

She didn’t sit in the waiting room. She walked through doors without knocking, dropped surnames like passwords. You followed in silence, clutching your folders and bag, while clerks and supervisors scurried to fetch files.

“Nanami Kento’s remains were returned to me within two weeks,” she said as you trailed her down another corridor. “Even incomplete, even unrecognizable. The system didn’t fight me on it.”

You swallowed. “Because you—”

“Because I had leverage,” she cut in. “Not because they respected me.”

She stopped outside a frosted glass door, glanced at you. “You’ll need someone to speak for you. Otherwise, they’ll never release him.”

Your throat tightened. “Why you?”

For the first time, her mask cracked.

Just slightly.

The corner of her mouth pulled, bitter.

“Because I know what it’s like to bury half a man.”

---

The man inside the office looked tired.

Older than the rest, his shoulders bowed under years of politics. He greeted Nanami’s wife with polite resignation. “You again.”

“Your clerks are obstructing a widow’s request,” she said flatly. “Release Gojo Satoru’s body to his wife. Immediately.”

His gaze slid to you, assessing. You fought not to shrink under it. “She lacks standing.”

“She has legal spousal rights.”

“Jujutsu society’s interests supersede.”

Nanami’s wife leaned forward. “Clan interests don’t include desecrating corpses. Unless you’d like that circulated?”

The room chilled.

His eyes narrowed. “Careful.”

“I cremated half a man with his ashes,” she said, her voice low, precise. “You want me to believe you’ll deny this woman a whole body? Do you want me to ask the press what you’re keeping from them?”

The silence stretched.

You could hear your own pulse.

At last, the man sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Fine. I’ll authorize the release. But the paperwork will take time.”

“How much?”

“A week.”

Nanami’s wife looked at you. Her gaze steadied you like a hand on your back.

“A week,” you repeated.

---

Outside, the air was cool. Evening had settled, painting the sky violet.

You stopped under the steps, gripping the railing, dizzy with relief and dread tangled together.

Nanami’s wife lit a cigarette. The glow lit her face in brief flickers.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

She exhaled smoke, watching it vanish. “Don’t thank me yet. They’ll make this ugly if they can.”

You pressed your palm against the railing. “Why help me?”

She looked at you then, really looked, like weighing something unspoken. “Because grief makes beggars of us all. And I don’t want to watch another woman crawl when she should be grieving.”

You blinked hard, throat thick.

The ember flared as she drew in another breath.

Then she turned away, heels striking the pavement, leaving you with the night and the promise of one more week.

---

The coffin wasn’t open.

You hadn’t asked for it. You hadn’t asked for anything.

When they wheeled it into the small preparation room, you thought you’d collapse. Instead, you just stood there, hands clasped, the skin rubbed raw at the knuckles.

“Do you want a moment?” someone asked.

You shook your head.

The lid lifted anyway, protocol, and you saw the pale angles of his face, the faint lines where sutures had pulled skin together.

Not broken. Not glowing.

Just still.

You thought the sight would tear something open.

It didn’t.

No sob broke free, no scream clawed up your throat.

There was only the faint sensation of air pressing against your lungs, in and out, a body keeping time when it didn’t want to.

Nanami’s wife stood in the corner. Watching. Not intruding.

Her eyes lingered on you longer than on him.

---

The funeral was held in the courtyard.

Not grand—Gojo clan money could have made it so, but politics had shrunk the ceremony into something stripped down. A scattering of chairs, muted flowers, a black canopy overhead.

The kids arrived first. Yuta, face set in a fragile mask; Maki, jaw tight; Inumaki lumbering in silence; Panda was already gone after his fight with Kashimo had made him too weak. Nobara didn’t speak much. Megumi sat with you the longest, along with Yuji. Later, Kusakabe appeared, adjusting his tie like he didn’t remember how. Higuruma stood in the back, unreadable, his hands folded in front of him like he was preparing to sentence the sky. Ino helped with the preparations.

Shoko lit a cigarette before the prayers started, then stubbed it out halfway. Her fingers trembled once before she shoved them back in her pocket.

You sat in the front row, hands pressed against your lap, nails leaving crescents in your skin. The coffin rested before you. A slab of wood, a finality.

Words were spoken. You couldn’t have repeated any of them if asked.

Afterward, people lingered in small clusters. Maki argued quietly with Kusakabe about security at the gate. Yuta tried to approach you twice, stopped both times, his throat working around words that wouldn’t come. Megumi cried when you hugged him; Yuji had to take him back to their dorms.

Shoko hugged you once, briefly, her hair smelling like smoke and antiseptic. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

You wanted to say something back, but nothing rose.

Nanami’s wife found you later, by the edge of the courtyard where the grass thinned into gravel. “You should eat.”

You almost laughed. “I don’t think I can.”

She studied your face. Her own expression was composed, the same careful poise she’d carried into the offices. But now, softer at the edges.

“Appetite comes back,” she said. “Slowly.”

You glanced at her. “Did it?”

Her gaze didn’t flinch. “Eventually.”

---

The first time you sat together after the funeral was at a café tucked off a narrow street.

It was her choice. She ordered black coffee; you let the waitress bring tea because staying up didn’t appeal anymore.

“You don’t have to talk,” she said, stirring sugar into the cup without drinking. “We can just sit.”

You nodded. And so you sat. Ten minutes, twenty; the silence not heavy, just present.

At the end, she paid before you could reach for your wallet.

“Next time,” she said, already standing.

You didn’t know there’d be a next time.

But there was.

---

It became a rhythm.

Once a week, sometimes twice.

A café, or the small bench near the river, or the library where she brought papers she barely glanced at.

You learned her name, though you didn’t speak it often. You learned she hated alcohol but drank it when she had to. That she always carried a cigarette case, even when she didn’t smoke.

She learned nothing about you you didn’t want to give.

And yet, she kept showing up.

---

One evening, you walked together down the steps of the temple after lighting incense. The air smelled of rain, the stones slick beneath your shoes.

“You still don’t cry,” she said suddenly.

The words should’ve cut. They didn’t.

They just slid into the quiet like another stone in the river.

“There’s nothing left.”

She nodded. “I know.”

You glanced at her, searching. “Do you ever…?”

Her mouth pressed thin. “Not in front of anyone.”

For a moment, you both stopped walking.

The rain ticked against the umbrellas of passersby, the city pulsing with distant lights.

And then she began walking again, heels clicking steadily.

You followed.

---

Friendship wasn’t the word you would’ve used.

It felt different.

Less about comfort, more about endurance.

At the café, she’d sometimes slide the newspaper across the table, point at some political headline, and mutter, “Useless men.” You found yourself almost smiling once.

Another time, when a clerk in the death registry office snapped at you for misplacing a form, she cut in with a tone sharp enough to freeze the entire room. You walked out together, her hand brushing your elbow briefly—not reassurance, just anchoring.

It wasn’t softness she offered.

It was structure, a scaffolding to lean on when you felt your own had rotted through.

---

Weeks passed.

The world didn’t care about the funeral anymore.

Other battles took headlines, other losses demanded mourning.

But sometimes, late at night, sitting across from her in a dim café, her cigarette ember glowing between you, you realized: you weren’t entirely alone.

Not healed. Not whole.

But not alone.

---

It started getting worse with the cigarettes.

She smoked through every meeting now, the air between you always faintly bitter, clinging to your clothes by the time you went home.

At first, you didn’t comment.

Everyone needed a crutch.

But after the third café where she tapped ash into an overfilled tray, you found yourself watching her fingers more than listening to her words.

One evening, walking away from the river together, you said quietly, “That’s your fourth today.”

She lifted her brow, unbothered. “Counting?”

“Hard not to.”

She smirked faintly, drawing another drag. The smoke trailed between you, curling against the night.

She didn’t defend herself. She didn’t need to with you.

---

The invitation came weeks later.

You weren’t sure why you offered it.

Maybe because winter had settled in and you were tired of seeing her shake ash off her coat in the wind.

“Come by,” you said. “If you want. I’ve got a bottle of wine I’ll never finish alone.”

She studied you for a long second, then nodded once. “Friday.”

---

Your apartment was too quiet.

You’d cleaned it twice before she arrived, tucked old photographs into drawers you never opened.

When the bell rang, she stepped inside like she’d done it before. Coat over the chair, cigarette case on the table, hands steady.

The bottle of wine sat between you.

Two glasses.

“You don’t like wine,” you said, pouring anyway.

“I don’t,” she agreed, taking the glass.

The first sip burned, sharp and sour. She didn’t flinch.

It was later, when the bottle had thinned, that the conversation shifted.

“You always sit in the same café chair,” she said, swirling the glass idly.

“So?”

“It’s compulsive. Like a child with a lucky pencil.”

You snorted. “Says the woman who arranges her cigarettes in rows of five.”

Her mouth curved. “Discipline.”

“Obsession.”

“Touché.”

The laughter was small, but it loosened something in the air.

As the night thickened, the words grew sharper, easier. She accused you of stirring your tea three times before drinking. You pointed out she always checked her watch twice in a row, as if once wasn’t enough.

By the time the bottle was nearly gone, the edge of amusement had softened into something else.

She set her glass down, fingers lingering against the rim, and went very still.

You watched her shoulders, the rise and fall of her chest, the way her gaze had dropped to the table. Her silence was too deliberate to mistake.

“What is it?” you asked quietly.

Her throat worked. She didn’t answer.

And then you saw it—the faint tremor in her hand, the way she bit the inside of her cheek. Not anger. Not restraint.

Something breaking loose.

Your own chest tightened. You remembered standing over Gojo’s coffin, unable to cry. You remembered her, standing by Nanami’s ashes with that same stillness.

You didn’t reach for her hand. Instead, you let the silence sit between you until it grew unbearable.

Finally, she looked up. Her eyes were wet, though no tears had fallen.

You didn’t think. You leaned in.

The kiss wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t even deliberate.

It was two hollowed-out people brushing against each other’s edges, testing whether the world would cave if they asked for something human again.

When she didn’t pull back, you let your lips linger. Her breath tasted faintly of smoke and wine.

And then she pressed closer, briefly, before breaking away.

The room hummed with quiet.

Neither of you spoke.

It wasn’t closure. It wasn’t healing.

It was just proof that grief could twist into something else when shared.

---

The morning after, she didn’t call. You didn’t either.

A week passed. Two. You sat at the same café once, staring at the empty chair across from you, but she didn’t appear.

By the third week, you stopped going.

The silence ate at you differently than before.

Not the same hollow ache of absence, but a sharper confusion. Had you said too much? Leaned in too far? Was that kiss some betrayal—of her grief, of yours?

At night you lay awake, staring at the faint outline of his glasses still resting on the nightstand. You wondered if this was what codependence looked like: two widows mistaking shared wounds for warmth.

Or maybe it was something else, something you weren’t ready to name.

---

You started packing.

Not all at once.

First, the shirts folded too neatly in the drawer, the ties he’d never worn.

Then the stack of manga he’d bought and left with the spines uncracked.

His coat stayed hanging by the door for weeks, until one morning you brushed against it and smelled nothing but dust. Then you folded it too.

The apartment grew lighter, emptier.

Not healed, just rearranged.

You didn’t cry. You thought maybe you should.

But instead, you placed each thing in boxes and taped them shut, telling yourself it was just space—space for something you didn’t know yet.

---

You saw her again on an ordinary afternoon.

The market was crowded, vegetables stacked in crooked piles, vendors calling prices over each other. You reached for the same bag of apples as another hand and paused.

Her.

Nanami’s wife.

She looked the same—composed, crisp coat, cigarette case in her pocket.

But her eyes flicked when she saw you. Not avoidance, not surprise. Just recognition.

“Hi,” you said, your voice thinner than you meant.

“Hi.”

You stood there with the apples between you until she cleared her throat. “How have you been?”

You hesitated. “Packing things up. Trying to… make space.”

She nodded, slow. “That’s good.”

“And you?”

Her hand hovered over the fruit before setting it down. “I keep the books. His notes, his calendars. Haven’t touched them. Yet.”

Silence stretched, not uncomfortable this time, just fragile.

You found yourself saying softly, “I think he’s with Suguru now. That’s where he wanted to be. He never really hid it.”

Her gaze softened, the faintest shift in her posture. “And Kento died at his job. Doing what he swore he’d do, even when I begged him not to. I hated it. Still do. But… I’m glad he didn’t compromise.”

The words hung between you, neither consolation nor bitterness.

Just truth.

You both exhaled at the same time, faintly startled into a brief, almost-laugh.

---

Later, you sat together on a bench outside the market, the bags of groceries at your feet. No wine this time, no smoke.

Just air cooling into evening.

“Maybe we don’t know what this is,” you said at last.

“No,” she agreed. “We don’t.”

You turned your head toward her. “But maybe we don’t need to, yet.”

She looked at you for a long moment, then gave a small nod. Not promise, not refusal.

Just agreement to keep walking the same road, parallel.

The sun dipped lower, orange bleeding into violet.

For the first time in months, you let yourself watch it without glancing at the empty chair beside you.

---

It started to feel like a routine.

Not official, not spoken—just dinners that turned into late nights, markets into walks home, silences that didn’t weigh as heavily anymore.

If someone had asked, you wouldn’t have called it dating. Neither would she.

But the rhythm was too familiar, too deliberate, to be nothing at all.

She made you eat more. You made her smoke less.

Somewhere between those, you started laughing again.

---

That night, it was her idea.

“Let’s go out,” she said, shrugging on her coat. “Not a café. Not tea. Something worse for us.”

The izakaya was crowded, smoky, noisy in the way you hadn’t realized you missed. The table sagged under skewers and fried chicken, pitchers of beer frothing over the rims of mugs.

By the second drink, your cheeks were warm.

By the third, you were leaning across the table, whispering conspiratorially. “He used to leave his blindfolds everywhere. Everywhere. Like they were breadcrumbs. Leading to hell.”

She barked out a laugh—sharp, unpolished. “Kento kept receipts. All of them. From years ago. Sometimes I’d find him rereading them, like it was literature.”

You snorted, almost choking on your drink. “At least he kept track of things. Mine would lose wallets. Phones. Keys. Me, if I let him.”

She tilted her glass toward you. “To annoying men.”

You clinked against her rim, foam sloshing onto the table. “To annoying men.”

It spiraled from there.

Stories sharpened by drink: his glow-in-the-dark eyes at midnight, Nanami’s infuriating schedule obsession, Gojo’s habit of eating sweets before meals, Nanami’s refusal to watch anything but serious news.

You were both doubled over, heads nearly on the table, shoulders shaking. The waitress raised an eyebrow; you waved her off, tears stinging from laughter.

And then, as often happened, the laughter cracked.

Your chest heaved once too hard.

Her hand pressed against her mouth, muffling the sound.

The tears came fast after that, sudden as a storm.

Laughter dissolving into sobs, heads bowed low over empty glasses.

“I hated it,” you muttered, voice breaking. “I hated how he left everything half-done. But I’d take it back. All of it.”

Her shoulders shook. “I told him once—just once—that he worked too much. He said, ‘It’s who I am.’ And then he went back to it. I never tried again.”

You reached across the sticky table, your fingers brushing hers.

She didn’t pull away.

For a long moment, you sat there like that. Two women in a noisy bar, crying over ghosts while the world around them laughed and drank and moved on.

When she finally looked up, eyes rimmed red, you didn’t hesitate.

The kiss came messy this time, tasting of beer and salt and grease.

Too much, too fast, yet not enough.

Her hand slid against your jaw, yours curling in her coat.

The world tilted with it—the grief, the laughter, the years of silence—all crashing into that brief, desperate closeness.

You broke apart only when the waitress arrived with another plate of skewers, blinking at the two of you, neither daring to meet her eyes.

Her laugh came low, shaky. “We’re a disgrace.”

“Probably,” you admitted.

But your hands were still touching beneath the table.

---

Five years later, the apartment wasn’t big, but it was theirs.

It smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and overpriced candles.

Every corner was cluttered with mismatched evidence of two people learning how to live again. A blazer draped over a chair next to a hoodie stained with ramen broth. Corporate reports balanced under a vase of sunflowers that should have died weeks ago but somehow hadn’t. Cigarette packs hidden behind boxes of Pocky. A hair tie looped around the handle of the kettle, abandoned like a small shrine to domestic fairies.

Nanami’s widow—now a high-ranking executive whose underlings whispered about her efficiency with the same awe they once reserved for exorcisms—sat at the kitchen island. Laptop open, glasses sliding down her nose, white shirt still crisp despite the hour. She scrolled through spreadsheets with the same ruthless precision her husband once used to cut through curses.

Across from her, Gojo’s widow was perched barefoot on the counter, eating ice cream straight from the tub, legs swinging. Her hair looked like it had lost a fight with both humidity and gravity. The spoon clattered against the carton as she talked.

“You can’t be serious, babe,” she said through a mouthful of rocky road. “Who chooses quarterly reviews over karaoke night? You’re thirty-two, not eighty.”

A sigh. The executive pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Some of us have careers. That matters if you want to keep buying expensive heels.”

“Excuse me? Karaoke matters. Without it, civilization collapses. Don’t look at me like that—you know I’m right.”

“You’re stupid.”

“And yet you moved in with me. Tragic.”

The executive shut her laptop with a snap. “Tragic is you eating my dessert when I specifically wrote my name on it.”

“You mean our dessert,” the gremlin corrected, holding out the spoon like a peace offering. “Besides, you love me.”

“That’s debatable.”

But her hand reached out anyway, fingers brushing against hers as she stole the bite, the faint smile betraying her words.

It wasn’t all banter.

There were mornings when the executive woke at 5 AM, body still trained by years of discipline and grief, only to find the gremlin curled across her side like a barnacle, drooling on her arm. Attempts to escape were met with half-conscious whining: “Five more minutes; don’t leave yet; your alarm is evil.”

And there were nights when the gremlin stormed into her home office with takeout, declaring that if she answered one more email after 8 PM, she would be physically dragged to bed.

They bickered constantly, but the bickering was alive, not hollow.

“Your socks are in the fridge again,” the executive muttered one Sunday, holding up the offending item.

“Not my fault,” the gremlin replied, deadpan. “Clearly, the fridge wanted to wear socks. You can’t fight destiny.”

“Or you could stop drinking three beers while meal-prepping.”

“Where’s the fun in that?”

Their friends noticed the change before either of them admitted it.

Shoko had raised an eyebrow over dinner once and muttered, “So… wives 2.0?” only to be met with simultaneous denials and a suspicious blush.

Even Megumi—who’d grown into a taller, sharper version of the boy she once knew—had sighed, “You two are unbearable,” before texting Yuji: They’re finally happy. It’s weird.

That night at the izakaya had been the turning point. Too many drinks, too much food, too much laughing about the irritating quirks of their late husbands. Gojo’s widow had mimicked his cocky tone so well the executive nearly spit out her beer; the executive had countered with Nanami’s endless sighs, complete with his exact hand gestures.

They laughed until their faces hurt. Then they cried until the waitress politely pretended not to notice.

After that, they stopped pretending it was anything other than what it was.

Now, five years later, they had rhythm.

The executive handled bills, taxes, and headaches with the mortgage.

The gremlin handled cooking, parties, and somehow convincing strangers to give them free drinks.

Their fights lasted an average of seven minutes before dissolving into reluctant laughter or equally reluctant kisses.

On the couch, the sharp edges softened.

The executive’s head rested on the gremlin’s shoulder while their fingers tangled lazily. The TV flickered with a loud, ridiculous comedy neither was watching.

“You’re leaving crumbs again,” the executive muttered, brushing chip dust off her blouse.

“Relax. The couch likes snacks.”

“It’s disgusting.”

“You said you loved me.”

“I love you, unfortunately. Not your habits.”

The gremlin laughed, pressing a kiss against her jaw—quick, warm, irritatingly sweet.

They weren’t grieving women anymore. They weren’t defined by the men they once loved or the funerals they survived.

They were two people who had built something messy, stubborn, alive.

Grumpy and sunshine. Workaholic and chaos.

Balance, in their own crooked way.

The executive shifted against the couch, eyes on the flickering TV but voice softer than usual. “Do you ever wonder what they’d think if they saw us now?”

The gremlin grinned, head tipping back against the cushions. “What makes you think they’re not? Mine was a pervert. I can feel him watching.”

The executive groaned, burying her face in her hands, but the laughter caught anyway, warm and reluctant.

---

A/N: Who do you think watches them more? Gojo or Nanami?

Masterlist

[nanamineedstherapy]

Ohh girl I loved the scrumptious offering like a fatcat :D Please tag me if you do another part :)

Gojo was kinda the only one I didn't fully hate, but omg Nanamin, I'll shave all those golden locks, wtf. Also, Suguru & Sukuna pissed me off, bro. On to the neutering table with them!

attention, please.

in a moment of desperation, you decide to do something bold, getting your nipples pierced in hopes it will reignite their attention and affection. you expect shock, lust, maybe even rekindled passion. instead, the reactions you get are nothing like you imagined.

c.w: angst, cheating, language (reader does get called whore) includes: satoru, gojo, suguru geto, kento nanami, toji fushiguro, ryomen sukuna, choso kamo, shiu kong, hiromi higuruma

a/n: this was requested by beautiful @nanamineedstherapy. i hope you love it, violet<33.

[nanamineedstherapy]

Girl I love the third wheeling your own marriage FIC, but will nanami, and gojo and reader ever get together?

Glad you’re enjoying it!! As for the question… you’ll just have to keep reading 👀.

I don’t spoil, but I can say the ride isn’t simple or fluffy.

It’s about the fallout, the power plays, and the mess between them—whether they end up together or apart, you’ll see.

Don't worry, their ending ends in about two chapters because I don't want to keep writing this story until I'm 80.

[nanamineedstherapy]

Hiya again!! I’m one chapter 11 now and oh my god!!!! THIRD WHEELING YOUR OWN MARRIAGE IS SOO GOOD, gojo and nanami totally deserve the brutal torture. Hmph. The way you write is incredible I m so in LOVE with it!!! Can’t wait to read what’s next.

Ahh, you’re so sweet. 🥹

Thank you for binging it this far!! Chapter 11 is a wild one, so I’m glad it hit—Gojo & Nanami definitely deserve everything coming their way, lol.

It means a lot that you’re enjoying the mess and the way I write it. Hope you survive the next stretch 👀.

Here's a meme for you!

[nanamineedstherapy]

I'm taking the weekend off guys, the voices are getting loud again.

I'll read my comfort Nanago/Fushiita fics and disassociate for a bit.

Have a nice time everyone!

[nanamineedstherapy]

did this lil something

[nanamineedstherapy]

Bro, I just started watching Given, and oh my god, everything about this dude SCREAMS adult Megumi.

Like, Megumi was a bully in high school and is already carrying the weight of 1000 traumas; meanwhile, THIS clone is in high school in a whole ass BAND??

Make it make sense. 🧍

I wanted soft Shin Fushita content, and instead I got trapped in the uncanny valley oven. 😭

Points of evidence (because my brain won’t shut up):

Same resting “I hate everyone” face.

The black hair + “don’t talk to me” aura is a COPY-PASTE.

Both give “raised by wolves and trauma.”

Literally the type to say 5 words max per day unless it’s to roast you.

If Megumi grew up and accidentally joined a boy band = this guy.

Although I personally prefer Megumi’s boyfriend (Yuji Itadorky™) because at least he’s got a personality, and I’m only on ep 3, but this one (Mafuyu Sato—Uenoyama’s future bf) has yet to demonstrate a single functioning brain cell :D

Megumi scored Yuji "Plot Armour" Itadorky™, while poor Uenoyama is stuck babysitting Sato’s 0.3 collective brain cells.

The math ain’t mathing :D

SatoShin are doing their own Nanami x Gojo cosplay, and I’m not ok.

So now, instead of enjoying the music anime I came for, I’m spiralling into a crossover ship war in my own head.

[nanamineedstherapy]

Heyyy pookie ☺️💕

I'm so glad you resonated with it, this genuinely means a lot 💗

You can even use this while arguing with men 😏

@nanamineedstherapy I fucking love you for saying the things I could never put into words.

I was looking for fics and in my search I found a dope post delving into fictional men but there are some specific parts that really fuckin spoke to me:

I would reblog the entire thing but it was too big and the parts in red are the ones that really spoke to me.

[nanamineedstherapy]

Since I haven’t written Nanago/Gonana in a while…

My brain’s been cooking this monstrosity:

University AU.

Nanami? Total frat menace. Charismatic, terrifying in beer pong, somehow always in a Henley like it’s his uniform.

Gojo? Certified loser™. (Nerdjo™, if you will). People either ignore him or roast him, even though half the campus is lowkey in love with him. Girls flirt—he just thinks they’re being “nice.”

Plot twist: Nanami & Sukuna are besties.

Bigger plot twist: Sukuna becomes Nanami’s personal wingman-slash-dating coach… but his “courting advice” is questionable at best.

Gojo has social anxiety & he's also awkward as hell, & these two meatheads are determined to bully him into love.

It’s not exactly canon personality-wise, but it’s still them (not ooc)—just messier, younger, & in an ecosystem where Sukuna is giving Nanami romantic advice. (ikr). That’s the level of chaos I’m talking about.

Would you read this? Or should I put it in the cursed idea vault next to “Truck-Kun From Bihar”?

Convince me to write this in the tags, I dare you.

[nanamineedstherapy]

Lord!

It's just a phase

(Reposted from my Twitter)

[nanamineedstherapy]

All I have ever done are sins

saint

[nanamineedstherapy]

Oh lord yess please!!!!!!

thirst

[nanamineedstherapy]

I'ma eat dry wall

smoke break

follow my twitter plzzzz