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nanamineedstherapy · 8 days ago

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Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

F!Non-Sorceress CEO Reader x Gojo Satoru x Nanami Kento

CHRO Reader x Higuruma Hiromi

Snippet -Gojo grinned. "Nanami? Working. Someone’s gotta fund couples’ therapy." He leaned back, laugh-rich. "Kidding! He’s suspended like me—so these days he reads about pregnancy, cooks nutritionally balanced meals, day trades and lets our wife cheat in video games. Very sexy, very domestic." WormTakeTheWeel: GOJO, BLINK TWICE IF NANAMI HAS A GUN. As if summoned by his sins, you appeared in the doorway. Gojo lit up like a kid handed a lifetime supply of sweets. "Wifey! Hi!" Unaware of what he was sharing in the stream, heavily pregnant in Nanami’s sweater, you balanced a tray of snacks. “Here,” you murmured—strawberry slices, chocolate-covered crackers, strawberry Pocky milk. The kind of effortless care that came from loving someone past the point of sanity. Gojo melted, feeding you a grape. You hummed, patted his head like a misbehaving puppy, and waddled out. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he crooned. The chat imploded. MechamarusLeftKnee: WAIT, THAT’S HER?? SHE'S SO CUTE??? SuguruForgotCondoms: HOW DID U TWO LAND HER? SHE’S LIKE ‘RICH’ RICH. NonConsensualForeheadStitches: BRO, SAY SORRY AGAIN, WTF? DO NOT FUMBLE A BADDIE, BRO!

Summary: You should be overjoyed that Gojo Satoru & Nanami Kento are your husbands. But you feel your skin crawl as you become the third wheel in your own marriage. Chapter Summary: Gojo Satoru has two settings: ‘Unhinged God’ and ‘Emotionally Constipated Golden Retriever.’ Nanami Kento is a spreadsheet with a pulse. Their wife? A heavily pregnant, introverted CEO who’s one Sims murder spree away from filing divorce papers in triplicate. Featuring: Parisian apologies, cursed twins rewriting reality, and a group chat that’s 47% memes, 53% war crimes. Love is stored in the passive-aggressive barista. Some smut. A/N: Sorry for the delay, besties—I was spiritually kidnapped by capitalism and the brainrot gods, but this chapter wouldn’t exist without WhatDidIJustRead on AO3/ @blackrimmedrose on Tumblr (who slid into my DMs like a reverse curse technique to beta this mess). I was out here lost in the void, vibing with my last two brain cells, when she showed up like an exorcist asking, "Hey, wanna be normal?" And I said, "Absolutely not." She beta-read, supporting my Sukuna x Nanami delusions, and told me to go full K-Drama Kaisen (which, btw, may or may not foreshadow a tragic villain(not human or living thing) in the story ahead. Who's to say? 👀). For this chapter: read the usernames (yes, they mean something, no, I won’t elaborate), tell me your favorite scene (because I know it’s long but I believe in your attention span—barely), and get ready because we’re in the endgame. Three more chapters and then we either crash and burn in angst or soft-launch a happy ending. Choose wisely. Also, special-grade Nanamin incoming (read that in Yuki’s voice), and CHRO should be read as another reader. Can you guess their backstory? I can bet, it's more unhinged than you think. Also I was kinda thinking what if in this fic the husbands look like the header. This chp is only happening the way it is bcs I may or may not be ovulating rn :P Had to break this chapter in two posts bcs Tumblr won't let me post it. Link to the next part at the bottom.

Previous Chapter 19 (alt ending 2.10) - The Anatomical Weight of Neglect in Infinite Drops - Part 4 (Tumblr/Ao3)

Chapter 20 (alt ending 2.11) - The Fault Lines: The Honored One’s Guide to Fumbling the Bag (And Other Love Languages) - Part 1

Discovery #1: Gojo Has Been Emotionally Waterboarding Himself for Fun—and Maya Is Into It (Professionally)

Maya swirled the questionable contents of her chipped coffee mug—definitely not coffee—and leveled Gojo with a look that could curdle milk. "You know what's hilarious? I actually thought you'd take this therapy seriously. My mistake."

Gojo, sprawled across the couch like a discarded prom dress, grinned. "Maya, darling, when have I ever taken anything seriously?"

"Point taken." She leaned forward, eyes gleaming with the predatory interest of a scientist observing a particularly fascinating train wreck. "Now explain why you spent last night watching old home videos of your wife and pausing on frames where she looked happiest."

Gojo blinked. "Is that... not normal?"

Maya's smile was razor-thin. "Oh, sweet winter child. That's not nostalgia—that's psychological self-flagellation. You're emotionally waterboarding yourself. For fun." She took a sip of her mystery drink, which smelled like industrial solvent. "Were you trying to break yourself like a CIA intern?"

Gojo adjusted his sunglasses. "Not intentionally."

Maya's clipboard hit the floor with a clatter. "YOU ZOOMED IN ON HER HANDS AND STARED AT THEM FOR TWO HOURS, GOJO."

"They are so small. I was appreciating them!"

"YOU'RE SIX-FOOT-THREE. EVERYONE'S HANDS LOOK SMALLER COMPARED TO YOU. EVEN KASHIMO'S. AND I CHECKED."

Gojo's brows furrowed. "Wait, why were you—"

"FOCUS." Maya's cheeks flushed—vodka or Kashimo-related trauma, unclear. "Then you fell asleep listening to an AI voice read her old emails."

Gojo perked up. "Wait, you can do that?"

Maya exhaled through her nose. "Do you understand how normal people process guilt?"

Gojo beamed. "Not even a little."

Maya lit a cigarette directly under the NO SMOKING sign.

Discovery #2: Nanami Has Been Micromanaging the Apocalypse—Maya Approves (Almost)

"I want it on record that I don’t want to be here," Nanami said, posture stiffer than a starched collar.

You rolled your eyes while Gojo was busy sniffing your new shampoo.

“Freud would eat you alive.” She leveled Nanami with a smirk.

Nanami adjusted his cuffs (and your ovaries did the thing). "Freud was a hack."

"So are most of my methods," Maya said cheerfully. "Now explain why you’ve been running a full intelligence operation on your wife."

Nanami didn’t blink. "It’s meal planning."

Maya slid a photo across the table. "You sent me a risk assessment on her caffeine intake."

"She exceeds the safe limit."

"You hired a private nutritionist. He’s disguised as a barista."

Nanami’s expression didn’t flicker. "Efficiency."

Maya’s eye twitched. "You tagged him 'P.N.' in her contacts like a Cold War spy. The man was in her Uber eats app."

Nanami sipped his tea. "It was a suggestion, not a command."

Maya stared.

Nanami stared back, deadpan.

For a brief, terrifying moment, Maya looked impressed. "And the sleep journal?"

"Observational research."

"You logged her REM cycles and fetal heartbeat counts without telling her."

Nanami’s lips thinned. "She was fidgeting in her sleep."

"You are insufferable." Maya cackled like a woman who’d just lost a bet. "You’re also scarily good at this. Ever consider corporate espionage?"

Nanami blinked. "I’m not sure you should be suggesting that."

Maya shrugged. "Neither does my license but here we are."

Nanami’s eye twitched as Maya continued, "Nanami. You’ve been tracking how many times she turns over in bed."

"Sleep quality is important."

"YOU GAVE HER A WEARABLE MONITOR WITHOUT HER KNOWLEDGE."

You and Gojo turned very, very slowly to look at him.

Nanami didn’t meet your eyes. "I didn’t want to wake her."

"THAT’S NOT THE PROBLEM."

Nanami narrowed his eyes, the human equivalent of a spreadsheet glaring back. "Would you rather I didn’t care?"

Maya massaged her temples. "No. But I’d like you to behave like a human man and not a passive-aggressive government drone."

You bit your cheek to keep from laughing. Gojo was already on the floor, wheezing.

Discovery #3: Wife Is Weaponizing Spite Like a Professional—Maya Finds It Charming

Maya turned to you with the weariness of someone who’d seen too much and drunk too much about it. "Now you."

You blinked. "What?"

Maya grinned, all teeth. "Explain the sabotage."

You sipped your water. "Is that bad?"

"Oh, sweetheart," Maya crooned, "it’s art. You’ve been unplugging Nanami’s alarm by exactly three minutes every night."

You shrugged. "Interesting."

"And Gojo’s autocorrect? Changing ‘baby’ to ‘bankruptcy’? Inspiring."

Gojo gasped from the couch. "Wait, is that why my texts sound financially threatening?"

Maya cackled. "And The Sims?" Her eyes sparkled with something unhinged. "You made their Sims, made them cheat on you, then made them suffer."

"That’s just called gaming."

"YOU LOCKED GOJO’S SIM IN A BASEMENT AND MADE NANAMI’S SIM WATCH THROUGH A WINDOW."

You smiled. "Sounds like a Tuesday."

"DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW UNHINGED THAT IS?"

"Maya," you said patiently, "have you ever played The Sims?"

"THAT’S NOT THE POINT."

"Then what is?"

Maya sighed. "You’re deliberately making yourself angrier instead of addressing your pain."

You shrugged. "It works."

"No, it’s therapy-adjacent." Maya winked. "Illegal in couples therapy, but therapy-adjacent." She narrowed her eyes at Nanami's PPT. "Wait. Why do you own ten pairs of noise-canceling headphones?"

You hesitated.

Maya pounced.

"YOU STOCKPILE THEM BECAUSE YOU THINK PEOPLE WILL LEAVE, AND YOU NEED TO DROWN OUT THE SILENCE."

You stiffened.

Maya leaned in, voice softening. "That’s not a normal purchase pattern, sweetheart."

---

The Verdict

Maya slumped at her desk like a woman who’d seen the abyss and found it lacking. "After careful consideration," she announced, "I’ve reached a conclusion."

Nanami rolled his eyes. "Which is?"

"That the three of you should never have been left unsupervised."

Gojo beamed. "Thanks!"

Maya turned to you. "And you—do you ever process emotions like a normal person, or is it all silent suffering and revenge Sims scenarios?"

You sipped your water. "That feels like a loaded question."

"YOU MADE A POWERPOINT TITLED ‘THINGS I WILL BRING UP IN A FIGHT IN FIVE YEARS.’"

Nanami side-eyed you, hard.

You coughed. "I have hobbies."

"NO, YOU HAVE A VENDETTA."

Gojo clapped.

Maya threw a pen at him. "AND YOU—" She whirled on Nanami. "Mr. ‘I Will Prove I Love Her Through Spreadsheets and Covert Ops.’"

Nanami frowned. "That’s reductive."

"No, it’s accurate. You’re micromanaging her entire existence instead of facing your guilt. How many meals have you prepped this week?"

"Forty-one."

Gojo blinked. "Bro."

"She’s pregnant," Nanami said flatly.

"SHE’S NOT SEVEN PEOPLE, NANAMI."

"SHE’S CARRYING TWINS, MAYA."

Gojo whistled. "Ouch."

"Satoru, shut the fuck up."

Maya took a deep breath. "New plan. We’re fixing this."

Solution 1: Gojo—Sit in the Void Like the Man You Are

Maya gestured with her cigarette. "Your diagnosis is ‘terminal avoidance with god-tier deflection.’"

Gojo grinned. "Sounds serious."

"You’ll survive." She snuffed the cigarette out on her desk. "You’re going to sit with your feelings. No jokes. No memes. Write them down."

Gojo blinked. "I don’t like that."

"I don’t care."

"But it’s bad in there, Maya."

"Then fix it. You’re the strongest, right? Fight your demons."

"Maya, be fr, my demons do MMA."

"Or I’ll have Kashimo babysit you."

Gojo paled. "No, no, not the gremlin."

"Then behave."

Solution 2: NANAMI—Stop Being a Passive-Aggressive NSA Agent

"Nanami," Maya said, flipping a page, "controlling her life isn’t an apology."

Nanami frowned. "Your suggestion?"

"Cold turkey. No trackers. No secret baristas."

"Impossible."

Maya shrugged. "Then prepare to be waterboarded by me. Emotionally ofcourse. Or worse—Kashimo."

Nanami sighed. "Fine. What else?"

"Tell her one genuine thing you love about her. Every day."

Nanami stared. "That’s manipulative."

"You’re manipulative. This is called emotional availability."

Gojo snorted. "Nanami, buddy, you’re fucked."

"Satoru, I will kill you."

Solution 3: YOU—YES, YOU—Quit Playing The Sims In Real Life

Maya leaned in. "You. You’re the worst."

You raised a brow.

"You avoid intimacy like it owes you money. You set people up to fail so you can say ‘I knew it.’"

You scowled. "I don’t do that."

"No? You casually bring up old betrayals at dinner?"

"Maybe."

"You pick fights right before things get vulnerable?"

"Potentially."

"YOU PRETEND TO BE FINE THE SECOND SOMEONE TRIES TO APOLOGIZE?"

You smiled. "That one’s a cultural reset."

Maya sighed. "You self-sabotage like a trained assassin. You’ve convinced yourself you don’t want to be loved."

You blinked. "Thank you. It works."

Maya smirked. "Until it doesn’t. You’re going to stop. No more preemptive strikes. No more exit strategies. Let these disasters love you."

Nanami and Gojo nodded in unison. "Agreed."

Maya groaned. "You all deserve each other." She waved a hand. "Now get out. I have a date with poor judgment and worse liquor."

---

Mr. Gojo “My Wife & My Husband” Satoru

After discreetly evacuating the women flirting with your husbands—and Megumi had handled your mother and Nanami’s Tokyo-sized crater—the internet’s first lesson about Gojo Satoru was clear: Never let him near social media.

The second? His wife was far too good for him.

Gojo wasn’t a streamer. He wasn’t even a social media guy, unless you counted hacking Jujutsu High’s alumni page to memeify Geto’s Oily Hair Era (RIP) with a pixelated shrine emoji.

But after the incident—after he and Nanami stormed a corporate office like rom-com leads gone feral (hospitalizing security, yeeting a man into a cactus, and letting Nanami fold a salaryman like a lawn chair)—the world had questions:

Why attack a gaming office?

Why panic like a golden retriever at the vet?

WHO IS THIS WOMAN???

It was his wife. The mortal who’d reduced the Honored One to a knees-bent, apology-babbling mess. The one whose existence made Gojo Satoru—arrogant, untouchable, walking calamity—drop like a marionette with cut strings the moment she turned her back.

He wasn’t famous, not in the way of streamers, influencers or athletes.

He was known, but in the way natural disasters were known—whispered about in legal documents, feared by politicians, mentioned only in hushed tones.

A quiet, bureaucratic, private nightmare.

But the corporate world had cameras, and those cameras had gone viral.

So now, here he was—perched in front of your gaming setup, Nanami’s reading glasses upside-down on his nose (purely for spite), streaming PUBG to 3,000 baffled strangers who had not signed up for this level of intimacy.

The stream title, “🔥LIVE NOW: DILF Gaming 🚀 PUBG Duos w/ Nanamin! (HELP WIFE STILL MAD AT ME!)🔥”—was a war crime. It lured normies, lost souls, chaos enthusiasts, and three vengeful ex-sorcerers—including Utahime, halfway through a wine bottle and seething.

PandaIsMyTherapist: IS THIS A CRYPTID???

NanamisTieStrap: WHERE’S THE BLONDE DILF??

CurseTheseNuts: Sir, this is a Wendy’s.

SixEyesNoBrain: Wife’s a QUEEN dump his ass. 💅

Gojo was a man of many talents: strongest sorcerer, Six Eyes wielder, government-toppler before breakfast.

And yet—

67 minutes into this dumpster fire, the chat raged with “Who’s Nanamin??” and “Is your wife single??”

And more.

RatioKingKenthoe: Bro, who even are u?

IWasNanamisTrueAwakening: IS THIS THE GUY FROM THE VIRAL OFFICE VIDEO???

"Okay, okay, listen," Gojo drawled, tilting his headset. "I know what you’re thinking—Gojo, why are you like this?—and the answer is: Love." His in-game avatar promptly ate a sniper round. "See that? Forty-seventh death today. This is love, okay?!"

NanamisSecondBiggestRegret: How’s your wife?

Gojo exhaled, smile bittersweet. "Radiant. Brilliant. Currently incubating two gremlins who already hate me. Also? Merciless. Actively Googling how to jail husbands internationally."

He popped a grape into his mouth and chewed.

TojisLeftSandals: So she still hasn’t forgiven you for the whole… office rampage thing?

"Uh, no?" His laugh frayed at the edges. "Formal apologies to: the eighteen guys Nanami hospitalized, the dude I yeeted into a cactus, and the intern who saw Nanami fold a man like origami. Special shoutout to the guy I threw into a marble wall and the soul who watched me kick down a boardroom door like a divorced dad on Christmas. In my defense? Panic. As for Nanami?" He shrugged. "Zero defense. He was just pissed."

LegallyNotaKaori: THIS IS WHY MEN SHOULD BE LOCKED UP.

TojisUnwashedBoobies: Apologize properly????

"Fine—shoutout to Kenjiro Tsuda from Voice-whatever-department! Sorry about the cactus! And, uh… sorry Nanami turned Dave into abstract art!"

InumakisVoiceCrackASMR: His name was Dan.

Gojo waved a hand. "WHATEVER. Therapy’s expensive, folks! Donate to the Wife Forgive Me fund! But not really because I’m VERY rich."

SukunasToenailClippings: Is your wife single now?

Gojo clutched his chest like he’d been stabbed. “MODS. BANISH THIS HERETIC.”

SixEyesNoBrain: Why’d you even attack her company??

“Because she left.” His face went eerily still; then he groaned, slumping over the desk. “She just… vanished. And I know my wife. If she’s avoiding us, she’s drafting divorce papers in three languages.”

GetosMissingPantaloons: So are you guys still living together?

Gojo stretched, smug. “Technically. She’s on maternity leave, so we’ve… reintegrated ourselves into her life like stray cats she can’t evict. She’s mildly tolerating it.”

MahitosLeftTesticularTorsion: WHERE’S THE BLONDE ONE?

Gojo grinned. "Nanami? Working. Someone’s gotta fund couples’ therapy." He leaned back, laugh-rich. "Kidding! He’s suspended like me—so these days he reads about pregnancy, cooks nutritionally balanced meals, day trades and lets our wife cheat in video games. Very sexy, very domestic."

WormTakeTheWeel: GOJO, BLINK TWICE IF NANAMI HAS A GUN.

As if summoned by his sins, you appeared in the doorway.

Gojo lit up like a kid handed a lifetime supply of sweets. "Wifey! Hi!"

Unaware of what he was sharing in the stream, heavily pregnant in Nanami’s sweater, you balanced a tray of snacks. “Here,” you murmured—strawberry slices, chocolate-covered crackers, strawberry Pocky milk. The kind of effortless care that came from loving someone past the point of sanity.

Gojo melted, feeding you a grape. You hummed, patted his head like a misbehaving puppy, and waddled out.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he crooned.

The chat imploded.

MechamarusLeftKnee: WAIT, THAT’S HER?? SHE'S SO CUTE???

SuguruForgotCondoms: HOW DID U TWO LAND HER? SHE’S LIKE ‘RICH’ RICH.

NonConsensualForeheadStitches: BRO, SAY SORRY AGAIN, WTF? DO NOT FUMBLE A BADDIE, BRO!

SwallowedByKenjaku: THE WAY SHE JUST… BROUGHT SNACKS. I’M WEAK.

MommyYukis_YearOldMilk: SAY SORRY AGAIN OR I SWEAR—

MonkeyWithDaddyIssues: TELL HER YOU LOVE HER RIGHT NOW.

JogosFinalFumes: GOJO, APOLOGIZE ON YOUR KNEES OR I WILL.

JunpeisType_YourMom: THIS IS ENOUGH TO MAKE A GROWN HUMAN WEEP.

LawAndOrderTheseTittiesHiromi: I’d let her step on me.

“Aww, look at her. So into me.” He turned to the camera, eyes starry. “Bringing me snacks. I love her so much. She’s sweet even when plotting my demise. Nanami, though?” He snorted. “I brought him coffee this morning, and he said, ‘I don’t accept offerings from traitors.’”

MeiMeisCrows: Why’s she still letting you live there if she’s so mad?

His grin faltered. For a heartbeat, vulnerability flickered.

“…Because she still loves us.” His voice softened, raw. “She’s just… hurt.”

TojisChildSupportNotice: Do you think she will ever forgive you two?

Gojo hesitated. The silence stretched.

“…I hope."

Then, his fingers drummed on the desk. “Anyway, therapy’s great. Nanami takes notes. I make jokes. Wifey fantasizes about our double homicide.”

His hands flew across the controller—reckless, frantic. He kept dying for it.

“I CAN DO THIS.” Gojo gritted his teeth, strangling the controller like it owed him rent. “I AM THE HONORED ONE. I DO NOT LOSE.”

You’d seen this before. The thing about Satoru? He mastered anything he focused on.

This could not stand.

Meanwhile, across the penthouse building in Megumi’s penthouse, Haibara grinned at his screen. "Ohhh, this is too good."

In your penthouse suite, just in a different room, you logged into your gaming account and cracked your knuckles. “Let’s wreck him.”

Haibara whooped. "Operation: Divorce Speedrun is a go!"

Back on stream, Gojo’s character respawned. “Alright, this time, I’m gonna—”

An enemy player materialized and obliterated him.

Gojo blinked. “…Huh.”

Then it happened again.

And again.

“I AM LOSING MY MIND,” Gojo howled as his pixelated corpse hit dirt. “WHO ARE THESE DEMONS?”

“The second he figures out the mechanics, it’s over,” you muttered to Haibara on discord. “If we don’t stop him, he’ll come back tomorrow on ultra-hard mode. I refuse to live in a world where Gojo beats me at my own stuff.”

Haibara cackled. "Damn, you’re a great wife."

"I know."

Gojo had no idea.

[TittyFucker69 set fire to HeadshotHubby’s hideout and stole their resources.]

[HaibaraWasHere sniped HeadshotHubby from a cliff.]

“WHY IS EVERYTHING ON FIRE?!” Gojo wailed. “I’M JUST TRYING TO LIVE. THEY WON'T EVEN LET ME GET A GUN.”

TakahashiTheRaccoon: THEY GOT HIS ASS. 😂😂😂

Then he squinted at his killer’s username: TittyFucker69.

"... Wifey."

GojosRestrainingOrder: LMFAOOOO HIS WIFE’S DOING THIS?

JogosFinalSmokeInhaler: Bro’s getting cyberbullied by his own wife.

And then—

A notification appeared.

[QuietlyCalculating has entered the server.]

You froze.

From the trees—a shadow moved. Silent. Precise.

[QuietlyCalculating has sniped HaibaraWasHere.]

[QuietlyCalculating has dropped rare loot near HeadshotHubby.]

"No." You narrowed your eyes. "It can’t be."

Gojo’s voice crackled through the chat: "OH MY GOD, WHO IS HELPING ME?!"

And then—

Nanami’s voice, dry as aged whiskey, filtered through the mic, no video. “You’re embarrassing us, Satoru.”

“Nanamin!!!!”

HeavenlyRestrictedManMilkers: WHY IS HIS TEAMMATE HOT??

SingleAndReadyToJujutsu: WAIT, HE’S GOT THE SEXY ACCOUNTANT VOICE.

Menace_Flakes: No, because WHO tf is playing against them? Why are they so good??

GetosWorstNightmare: His name is Nanamin?? How does a man named Nanamin sound this fine?

Then the kill feed lit up.

[TittyFucker69 killed HeadshotHubby.]

Gojo’s screen went black.

"NOOOOOOO."

Nanami sighed. “You should’ve used cover.”

Gojo, mumbling passive-aggressively, started a new game.

The Discord VC hummed with quiet menace as Haibara, you, and now Megumi coordinated your next assault through stream snippets.

"Place your bets," Haibara's grin was audible. "How many more humiliations before he rage quits?"

"He's Gojo," you muttered, lining up your shot. "He doesn't quit. He stays suffering."

Megumi adjusted his scope with deadly precision. "Then we'll make it memorable."

[TittyFucker69 threw a Molotov cocktail at HeadshotHubby.]

[Player_Unknown shot HeadshotHubby in the kneecaps.]

[EldritchHorror69 ran HeadshotHubby over with a jeep.]

"WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?! KENTO, HELP!" Gojo's voice cracked mid-scream.

CorporateSorcererOfMyPanties: LMAOOOOO IS HIS WIFE SICKING HER DEV TEAM ON HIM?!!

SugurusLeftEarring: HE JUST CALLED HIS TEAMMATE KENTO??? IS THIS ILLEGAL??

Gojo spun wildly in-game, spraying bullets at phantom enemies. "SHOW YOURSELVES, COWARDS!"

Your smirk was weaponized. "With pleasure."

[TittyFucker69 knocked HeadshotHubby out with a frying pan.]

"I AM GOING TO SCREAM."

Nanami's sigh crackled through comms. "Stay down. I'll revive you."

"Took you long enough," Gojo pouted.

Nanami ignored him, focus unbroken.

The chat collectively short-circuited.

SixEyesNoThoughts: NOT THE DEEP-VOICED TEAMMATE SAVING HIM.

InfinityAndBeyondDumb: omg he’s so patient; he’s gotta be his husband and used to it.

NanamisTrauma2TheElectricBoogaloo: Is this real life???

CertifiedFeralBitchSukuna: HIS VOICE IS SO FINE, HELP. (NO HOMO THO.)

"Kento," Gojo whined as Nanami healed him, "I'm being cyberbullied by our wife."

"You deserve it," Nanami deadpanned.

"YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE ON MY SIDE."

"I am. That's why I'm ensuring you suffer productively."

SealedLikeaTupperware: lmfao, look at his Face. You cryin Gojo? 😏

SukunasTaxReturns: Sucks to suck. 🤡

Haibara's cackle echoed through Discord. "Alright Fushiguro. Wanna deliver the coup de grâce?"

Megumi exhaled through his nose. "Fine."

[Player_Unknown headshotted HeadshotHubby.]

[Player_Unknown killed QuietlyCalculating.]

NanaminHater69: NOT NANAMI BEING OBLITERATED. 😭

HeianEraFuckboy: WAIT, WHO TF IS THIS NEW ASSASSIN??

Megumi’s low voice came through on the live stream: “You both should quit now.”

MeiMeisCrowFood: Megumi?? AS IN FUSHIGURO??

YutasSimpArmy: Isn’t that the CEO guy??? WTF IS GOING ON?

TodousType_Dead: His wife is playing against him. His teammate is a DILF. His enemy is a CEO?? Is he living in an Indian daily soap???

Gojo slumped back, controller dangling. "This is my 13th reason."

Nanami typed a private message: [You're on your own.] Then vanished from the server.

As if scripted by cosmic comedy:

A new donation popped up in Gojo’s chat.

[BodySnatcherSupreme_MilfSuguruWhoDLC donated $5]: GG loser. Get better. Your wife outclasses you.

MegumisAbandonmentArc: Peak content.

SukunasIRSProblems: PLS MAKE THIS A REGULAR SERIES.

DeadbeatWithBenefits: NO BC WTF DID I JUST WITNESS?

SukunasToeJamCollector: ARE THEY IN A POLYCULE OR A TERRORIST ORGANIZATION? I CAN’T TELL.

Final death count: 72. The internet had crowned its newest disaster polycule.

The next morning, your PR team ambushed you via Slack. "We weren't supposed to do this but—just look."

The screen displayed Gojo's smirking face: "Nanami's the responsible one, our wife's scary, and I'm the hot one. That's balance."

“They love you guys,” the PR rep emphasized, scrolling through comments. “Your marriage is trending. People are calling your relationship ‘the most insane but oddly wholesome thing they’ve ever seen.’ ‘Protect this weird fam,’ ‘Wholesome insanity.’ Japan wants… merch.”

"...I'm defecting to Antarctica."

"Too late." The junior rep winced. “Marketing made hoodies. ‘DILF Grade’ with Mr. Gojo’s face.”

Gojo’s voice carried from the hall, “make mine a crop top!”

---

Group Chat: Wife Support Network 💅 Horny, Helpless, & Heavily Pregnant

(Inc: You, Shoko, Maya, CHRO)

Postmortem Baddie: How’s it going?

Perpetually Horny: Terrible. He made me sit through a movie marathon.

Postmortem Baddie: What’s the issue?

Perpetually Horny: All three Shrek movies.

Postmortem Baddie: Ah.

Perpetually Horny: He acted out the dialogue. Every single line. He knows them all by heart.

Cuntyest Bitch Alive: Hahaha

Postmortem Baddie: I… I’m sorry.

Perpetually Horny: At one point, he turned to me and whispered, "You know… I’m like Shrek."

Postmortem Baddie: And you said?

Perpetually Horny: "Because you’re big and scary?"

Postmortem Baddie: 😭😭😭

Perpetually Horny: No. "Because I have layers."

Cuntyest Bitch Alive: In my professional opinion, both your husbands combined bring the IQ of an onion to your marriage.

Perpetually Horny: I know. 😔

---

Nanami noticed it first.

A flicker at the edge of his vision—a hairline fracture in the air. The world stuttered, reality peeling back like burnt film.

One moment: morning light gilded your cheek as you sat across from him, fingers curled around a mug with Gojo’s face. The next—

Your hometown café. Coffee-stained walls. Burnt espresso and cloying vanilla.

This wasn’t real.

But there you were—older, weary, pregnant—standing where you’d stood years ago, demanding to pay for your first date. Your hand pressed to your temple, veins stark as the twins’ cursed energy warped the air like a heat mirage.

Nanami tried to speak.

Does it hurt?

Do you remember?

Can you hear me?

His throat sealed. Iron bands cinched his ribs. The twins’ power folded time into origami cranes with razor wings, slicing the present into shards of memory.

A memory rewritten with teeth.

A memory repainted with present horrors.

Rewritten. Repainted.

This—this was a cruelty he hadn't expected.

A nightmare stitched from his deepest dread: losing you.

Your eyes met his—wide, disoriented—then dropped to your stomach, where the twins kicked not against flesh but the fabric of the moment itself.

You laughed, frayed. “Well… this is new.”

He reached for a napkin, pulled his ever-present pen, and wrote with clinical precision:

I’d choose you every time.

Your finger traced the words. Another laugh, brittle. “You’re such a dork.”

He wrote faster, ink bleeding:

I know.

The world ripped.

Now he was in Shoko’s infirmary, the day of the lynch mob. Gojo crashed through the ceiling, grinning through a bloody nose.

“My babies are menaces. I love them.”

Shoko didn’t glance up. “Get out of my morgue.”

Walls twisted.

Colors leached. Machines gurgled like dying throats.

You gripped a cracked glass, trembling. “It’s getting worse.”

Nanami lunged—

Night. Kitchen. Empty air.

Gojo dangled upside-down off the couch. “Welcome back! I just won—”

“Where is she?” Nanami’s voice flayed.

“Bathroom. Threatened to drown me.”

The door stood ajar.

Black static curled through the crack—the twins’ energy, hungry, wrong.

You sat on the tub’s edge, cursed energy coiling like serpents of smoke and grief.

Nanami knelt. A glass pressed into your grip.

You drank. Shuddered.

“…Still choosing me?”

“Every time.”

Outside, unnoticed, Haibara slipped a plastic bag on the doorstep. Inside—iced tea. The kind you’d mentioned once, casually, about your grandmother making it for you when you were sick.

He didn’t knock. He knew Nanami would find it.

But Haibara didn’t care about anything else, only that you must have been craving something from childhood, something that wasn’t tainted, something yours.

Awakening: 4:03 AM

Nanami woke choking.

Cold sweat. Racing heart. Empty bed.

He fumbled for his phone—

[Haibara, 2:14 AM]: Left iced tea on the step. Her grandma’s recipe.

His pulse hammered. She’s gone. She’s gone.

Gojo answered on the second ring, his voice sleep-heavy. "What? Nanamin, it’s... Jesus, it’s 4 AM."

Nanami could practically see him—half-asleep, limbs tangled in the blankets, face buried in the crook of your neck.

"Is she with you?"

“Of course she’s here; where else would she be?"

Nanami heard the shift of blankets and Gojo’s low curse.

And then—your voice. Faint. Sleep-muddled. "...What’s wrong?"

Gojo's voice softened as he nuzzled you closer, rubbing your now-taut stomach. "Nanamin's being dramatic, sweetheart. Go back to sleep."

You sighed, melting back against Gojo’s chest.

Nanami said nothing.

Gojo was already passed out again, arms loosely coiled around you, utterly unaware of the weight pressing on Nanami’s chest.

He hung up and stared at the ceiling, shadows dancing along the intricate plaster.

By 4:30 AM, Nanami was at the gym.

It was empty.

Or—almost.

Haibara Yu and Megumi Fushiguro were already there in the predawn gloom, the only other souls insane enough to be lifting weights at the ass-crack of dawn.

The gym at 4:30 AM was a cathedral of shadows, iron, and sweat.

Nanami’s shirt clung to the ridges of his abdomen, damp with the kind of sweat that came from running from something, not toward it. Special Grade wasn’t just a title—it was the way his muscles coiled like live wires, the way his gaze could strip a curse to its marrow.

Tonight, though, his discipline frayed at the edges.

Haibara, swayed from the pull-up bar like a panther testing a rotten branch, all coiled menace. The nursery rhyme curled off his lips wrong—London Bridge is falling down. Falling down. Falling down—each note flatter than a surgeon’s blade. Former MI6, current serial killer headache moved with the lazy definiteness of a man who’d gut you mid-laugh.

He dropped soundlessly, boots whispering against concrete. Every motion carried that same contradiction—the indolent roll of shoulders, fingers flexing like he missed the weight of a garrote. Discipline had long curdled into pandemonium here: the clatter of Megumi’s water bottle “accidentally” kicked across the gym punctuated his sets, a metronome to his amusement, because that’s what Haibara came to the gym with Megumi for was-amusement, mockery. Nanami counted three fractures in the plastic. Haibara counted the seconds until Nanami’s patience snapped.

When he grinned, it wasn’t an expression. It was a trapdoor.

His gaze scraped over Nanami, amber eyes dissecting tendon from bone with the clinical interest of a taxidermist. “Look what the guilt dragged in.”

Megumi, CEO of too many corporations at this point and the spitting image of Zenin Toji with a cursed technique—if his father had traded high-profile assassinations for boardrooms—hoisted 700 kg with brutal clarity, probably less than his usual. The bar groaned under the weight, his shadow pooling at his feet like ink stirred to life. No suit here: just a sweat-soaked tank top, corded muscle, and the kind of focus that could split atoms.

Nanami didn’t need a cursed technique to read him. Every lift was a silent snarl, the clang of iron a substitute for the crack of bone. Megumi’s eyes stayed locked mid-air, as if envisioning a skull beneath the barbell.

Not friends. Never friends. Just two predators sharing a cage at dawn.

He didn’t acknowledge Nanami.

Nanami ignored them.

He needed the burn of iron, the scream of muscle—anything to drown out the static in his skull.

He plugged in his headphones, trying to drown it out.

It didn’t work.

Not today.

How had Gojo felt when he wasn't with him and you?

Nanami tried not to think about it—the sleepless nights resulting in dark circles under Gojo’s eyes, the empty space where he should have been, the 3 AM texts, the subtle, desperate offerings left outside the penthouse door like Gojo was some stray cat who didn’t know what else to do but leave gifts and his hope.

Nanami had hated it.

The pettiness. The possessiveness. The weakness of it.

Now, he missed it.

He even missed the insufferable smirk he’d wanted to punch every day.

Nanami exhaled sharply, adjusting his grip on the barbell.

Pathetic.

He was losing it.

And worse? He was scared.

Not of Haibara’s cursed technique—though even now, Nanami couldn't pin it down beyond the fact that it was wrong, like a joke that lingered too long after the punchline.

Not of Megumi’s shikigami—deadly, obedient, and always watching.

But of the twins.

What if they had time-affecting abilities?

What if they inherited Gojo's Infinite Void?

What if they inherited Nanami’s own Domain—Fractured Eternity?

Or—what if they were worse?

That was the part Nanami couldn't stomach.

Not because of the obvious horrors—time manipulation, reality-bending infants, diapers vanishing from existence—but because he was ill-equipped.

He was Special Grade, yes. But what did Special Grade matter when your own children could, theoretically, rewrite the laws of causality during breakfast?

Gojo, for all his recklessness, could handle it. He had infinite void; he could probably stabilize it. He could make it fun, like a game.

Nanami?

Nanami followed rules. Nanami needed rules.

What did rules mean to toddlers who could rewrite them with a giggle?

The thought settled in his stomach like lead.

Gojo would be better at this.

Gojo, who could handle nonsense, who saw power like a second language. Who, even at his most irresponsible, was still more capable of raising gods than Nanami ever would be.

The thought tasted like betrayal.

Haibara slid onto the bench beside him, grinning like a shark.

“You look like shit.”

Nanami didn't flinch.

Across the room, Megumi froze mid-lift, eyes flickering toward them.

Nanami finally met Haibara’s gaze. “What do you want?”

Haibara tilted his head, wolfish. “Just wondering—when she finally leaves you, think she’ll let me babysit?”

Nanami’s fist clenched.

Megumi’s shadow curled under his feet like it was alive.

Haibara laughed as he stood, unbothered. “Relax. I’m joking.”

He wasn’t.

“You’re tense,” Haibara said, rolling his shoulders to hide the fact that he was observing Nanami like a guinea pig, his grin sharp like a switchblade. “Worried she’ll realize she married the wrong disaster?”

Nanami’s grip tightened on the barbell. 685 kg. He lifted it like a sacrament.

“Or is it the twins?” Haibara’s voice dropped, velvet and venomous. “Heard they’ve been rewriting reality. Cute trick. Must keep you up at night.”

730 kg. The plates rattled.

Megumi’s shadow twitched.

“Imagine,” Haibara continued, “explosive diarrhea turns into a time loop. Or naptime… poof. Voided.” He leaned in, breath grazing Nanami’s ear. “You’re not built for chaos, Kento. You’re built to break under it.”

Nanami slammed the bar down. The crash echoed like a gunshot.

Megumi paused, knuckles whitening around his own bar.

“Fuck off.” Nanami’s voice was calm. Too calm.

Haibara laughed—a sound that belonged in a back alley, not a gym.

They both knew he wouldn’t.

Haibara was a ghost. A paradox. A cursed technique even Nanami couldn’t parse—wrongness wrapped in a razor grin.

Nanami put in his headphones again and tuned out anything more that came out of Haibara’s mouth.

His mind circled back to the drain:

The twins.

Gojo’s children. His children.

What if they unraveled the world before they could crawl? What if their laughter cracked the sky?

Special Grade meant nothing here.

He’d built his life on order. On ratios. On the clean slice of his blade through flesh and bone.

But this?

Chaos with their eyes. Chaos with Gojo’s smile.

He’d seen Gojo cradle your belly last week, grinning as the twins warped gravity into a kaleidoscope. “Cool, right?”

Nanami had almost vomited in the ensuite.

Haibara laughed again at something Megumi said. Nanami didn’t care.

He missed you.

He missed Gojo.

He missed Takahashi.

And worse, he was terrified.

So he headed straight home; he didn’t care about rules right now, or he’d end up with matching hair as Gojo by breakfast.

On his way, he thought about how he became a special grade sorcerer—something he honestly never even dreamed off.

He had been in his early twenties at the time—

The sky had been the color of a rotting bruise that day—the day he was supposed to save some children and get them to safety instead of staying to save one singular person.

The special-grade curse hadn't even been human-shaped.

Nanami had exhaled through his nose, adjusting his grip on his sword. His uniform had been torn—jacket missing, sleeves rolled up, dress shirt stained with things he hadn't been thinking about right then.

The thing in front of him had pulsed.

It hadn't been a curse, not entirely. Something older. Something hungrier. He had been able to feel it under his skin, the same way a man could feel a spider crawling across his bare chest in the dark.

Nanami had seen plenty of horrors since becoming a sorcerer, but this—

This had been wrong.

The battlefield had been quiet. Too quiet.

Nanami had rolled his shoulders, his body aching with exhaustion, his cursed energy flickering like a dying ember. His technique could only do so much when the thing in front of him had refused to obey the laws of physics, of logic, of anything.

It should have been Gojo there.

Gojo should have handled it.

He had been the strongest, hadn't he?

And Gojo had been there—unconscious in the rubble.

Nanami had swallowed down the bitter taste in his mouth.

He remembered the children's screams from earlier that day—innocents he'd walked past without hesitation because thirty meters ahead, Gojo had been bleeding out.

Japan's shield.

The man who carried the weight of their entire world.

The choice had calcified in his bones before he'd even registered making it: let the weak die to save the essential.

Gojo hadn't been weak.

He hadn't been fragile.

But even he—especially he—had had limits.

And when this thing had tried to devour him, Nanami had made a decision.

A stupid one. A reckless one.

But Gojo had been a light, hadn't he? The kind that burned too bright, too hot—always throwing himself into danger because he had known he would survive.

But sometimes, light had needed something to block the worst of the storm.

And Nanami had always been the type to stand in the way.

Blood had dripped down his forearm, pooling at his wrist before hitting the ground in soft, rhythmic splatters. His vision had blurred for a moment, the exhaustion creeping up his spine, curling around his throat like a noose.

He had been about to die.

The realization had settled in his bones like a quiet, unshakable truth. He had had nothing left.

No more clean cuts. No more weak points to exploit. No more cursed energy worth a damn.

But this thing couldn’t come out of this alive.

It had been a thought that hadn't felt like his own.

Nanami had inhaled.

If the children died, Japan would mourn.

If Gojo died, Japan would burn.

If I die here, Gojo will live.

That had been enough.

Nanami had never been sentimental, had never cared for heroics.

But if his death had meant the strongest would keep breathing, if it had meant the world wouldn't have to watch its brightest flame flicker out—

Then let him be the last person he protected.

The thing had moved.

Nanami had barely registered it before it had been on him, tendrils of something wrong wrapping around his limbs, his throat, squeezing like a vice.

Black spots had danced at the edges of his vision. His fingers had twitched.

Not yet.

Not when Gojo had still been lying unconscious in the rubble, too far to stop what had been coming.

Not when Nanami had been the only thing standing between the strongest and death.

The thing had let out a deep, wet shudder—like it had known he had been breaking, like it could taste the moment he would shatter.

Nanami had closed his eyes.

And then—

Something had cracked.

Not the thing.

Him.

The thing had been a tangle of twisting, sinewy limbs and jagged mouths, a writhing mass of hungry, shifting flesh. It had breathed, and the sound alone had made Nanami's skin crawl—wet, sucking, starved.

Not a curse borne of petty hate or resentment. No.

This had been something else.

A curse born from repetition.

From the same unbreakable cycle of exhaustion, of waking up to the same crushing reality every single day. A curse born of salarymen who had died faceless and forgotten, whose existence had been ground down into the pavement, leaving behind nothing but resentment towards time itself.

It had been a curse that had not just killed.

It had devoured.

And Gojo had nearly been its next meal.

Nanami's fingers had curled tighter around the hilt of his dull blade, steady despite the deep ache in his bones.

The thing had not spoken. It had not needed to.

Because it had understood him.

It had seen him—for what he had been.

A man who had once walked away.

A man who had once believed he could be free.

And a man who had returned, not because of duty, not because of honor—

But because he had had nothing else.

Nanami had inhaled.

He had had one strike left in him.

And it wouldn't be enough.

The thing had lurched, shadows stretching and curling around him, reality bending at the edges of his vision—

Nanami had moved on instinct. One last clean cut.

And then—

The fracture.

It hadn't been physical. Not like a broken bone, not like a severed limb.

It had been deeper.

A fundamental split—an unraveling, the careful stitching of his sanity giving way beneath the weight of inevitability.

And in that moment—

Nanami had stopped resisting it.

Cursed energy had erupted from his body, not in a surge, not in a flood—

But in segments.

Golden lines had cracked through the air like fault lines in glass, slicing through the battlefield, the air, even time itself.

Nanami had exhaled.

And the world had fractured.

It had been small at first, a fracture so delicate he had almost not noticed. But then it had spread—like glass spiderwebbing under a hammer, like bones snapping beneath unbearable weight.

Something in him—something fundamental—had broken.

And for the first time in his life, Nanami had stopped thinking.

It hadn't been a surge, hadn't been a flood.

It had been a detonation.

The curse had screamed.

Nanami had stood in the center of a domain that had not felt like a domain at all.

The world around him had been broken apart, shattered into an infinite gridwork of golden lines, each pulsing with controlled energy.

The battlefield had no longer been whole.

It had been segmented.

Divided.

And Nanami had been the only one who could navigate it.

The curse had tried to move—

It had tried to retreat.

It couldn't.

Time had stopped in certain places, its limbs frozen mid-lunge.

Nanami had stepped forward, and time had snapped back—only for the creature's own weight to work against it, limbs twisting in on themselves, bones shattering from the sheer imbalance of movement.

The curse had screamed in sheer agony.

Nanami had not blinked.

It had tried again—its shadow stretching out, seeking purchase.

Nanami had raised a hand—the one not holding his trusted blade.

The segment of reality where the curse's attack had existed simply had ceased to function.

Its own energy had been turned inward, redirected to itself, and the resulting collapse had crushed its ribcage before it could even react.

This had not been a battlefield.

This had been a machine, and Nanami had been the only constant inside it.

No chaos could exist there.

Only order.

His order.

He had moved, and the fractures had shifted with him, the golden lines bending to his will.

A blade of raw cursed energy had manifested in his hand—not just one. Multiple.

Nanami had raised them, eyes dull, distant.

And had brought them down.

Each strike had erased a portion of the curse's body, carving through flesh, bone, existence itself.

It hadn't been screaming anymore.

Because it had been divided too many times to remember what pain was.

Nanami had exhaled.

And then—

He had collapsed equilibrium entirely.

A single point of space where every force, every movement, every reaction had been allowed to break free at once.

The resulting detonation had rippled through the segmented air, shattering the remaining pieces of the curse into something smaller than dust.

Silence.

Nanami had stood alone.

And in that moment—

He had no longer been the same.

Like he had finally let go.

The thing had tried to retreat.

Nanami hadn't let it.

The next second he had stood over the corpse.

It had taken three slashes.

Only three.

The domain had faded.

The fractures in the air had smoothed out.

Nanami had blinked slowly, his vision adjusting to the return of reality.

His breath had been steady.

His hands had no longer ached—everything had healed.

The weight that had always been on his shoulders—the unbearable burden of duty, of expectation—

It had been gone.

Not lifted.

Just gone.

Nanami had exhaled.

And for the first time in his life, he had not felt tired.

He had not felt righteous.

He had not felt kind.

He had simply felt efficient.

A sound had caught his attention—something shifting in the rubble.

Nanami had turned.

Gojo had been awake.

He had been watching him.

Nanami had met his gaze, something unreadable passing between them.

And then—

Then Satoru had smiled.

It hadn't been cocky. Hadn't been smug.

It had been something else entirely.

Something that had felt like acknowledgment.

It hadn't been relief.

It hadn't been gratitude.

It had been recognition that he didn't have to be alone anymore.

Satoru had seen it.

The change.

Nanami hadn't looked away—held his gaze, unflinching.

His breath had been slow. Controlled. His hands had no longer ached. His cursed energy—

It had felt different. His hands were finally free of their constant ache. His cursed energy... it had transformed entirely.

Nanami had sighed, bracing himself, but the weight hadn't come back.

And today—now he was opening the door to his home.

The thought sometimes came unbidden—would he have ever met you if he hadn't ascended to Special Grade that day?

Well—what was there to wonder—he wouldn’t have, and Gojo would have either died or returned with you—his wife—from abroad, happy in your own world.

And Nanami would have died a thankless death, watching you both from a far. Never in.

The penthouse smelled of caramelized sugar and recklessness.

Gojo Satoru currently stood shirtless at the stove, pancake batter dripping down his abs. “Nanamin! Perfect timing—I’m inventing the Unlimited Syrup Technique.”

Nanami offered his usual faint smile before continuing down the hall.

He found you in bed, curled under the duvet. Your belly rose and fell with the rhythm of life he couldn’t control.

He slid in behind you, his broad chest molding to your back. His hand settled over the swell.

The twins kicked.

Once.

Nanami’s breathing relaxed.

Then another.

Small. Insistent. Alive.

You stirred, sleep-soft. “Hey, stinky.”

His quiet laughter shook through both of you.

Haibara was right.

He would break.

But not today.

Today, he’d hold the line.

For you.

For them.

For the man humming off-key in the kitchen, syrup in his hair and limitless infinity in his veins.

Special Grade wasn’t a title.

It was a life sentence. You lived with it until you died because of it.

The only thing it really did was that it made one harder to kill.

Maybe he didn’t have the answers. Maybe he never would.

But this—this was more than he deserved.

Later, he gave you the iced tea Haibara had sent and asked for the recipe. From then on, he made it for you every day, even though Haibara had messed up the recipe, and it would never taste the same. But you still wanted it.

People often thought he regretted that day when those kids died because he never really talked about it.

But the truth was—

Nanami didn’t feel a thing that day.

No remorse, no regret.

Because it was better to save the one who would save the world than to die saving insignificant creatures.

And it worked out for him. Had he not saved Gojo that day, he wouldn’t be here—married to you, both with his and Gojo’s twins kicking against his palm as you lay against him. Nanami would make that choice every time. The children's ghosts could haunt him. The guilt could fester. But Gojo's mischievous giggling in the kitchen and your sleepy smile against his chest—these were the only absolution he needed.

That was efficient, wasn’t it?

Take a small loss to save the long-term investment.

---

Nanami was mindlessly staring at your company’s stocks when the next TikTok came.

"If your man doesn’t put together the nursery without being asked, he doesn’t deserve the baby."

Nanami’s eye twitched.

Then:

"Kento."

Nanami’s head snapped up. You were standing in the doorway.

"Did you finish the nursery?"

Nanami’s jaw flexed. "No."

"Interesting."

Nanami’s gaze sharpened.

Later that night, he stayed up until 3 AM assembling a crib while you fought your own demons.

Group Chat: Wife Support Network 💅 Horny, Helpless, & Heavily Pregnant

(Inc: You, Shoko, Maya, CHRO)

Perpetually Horny: Shoko. He’s building a crib. 🔨👶

Postmortem Baddie: Aww. 💖

Perpetually Horny: SHIRTLESS.

Postmortem Baddie: Oh. 👀😳

Perpetually Horny: He’s using a screwdriver. The muscles in his back are moving. Like I’m watching the Discovery Channel. 📺🍑

Postmortem Baddie: So…? 😏

Perpetually Horny: So I almost threw myself at him. [Send help.] 🥺🙏

Cuntyest Bitch Alive: Bitch. I’m too drunk. But if you let him hit. I’ll hit you. 🔪

Perpetually Horny: Is that who I think it is???? 👀

HR Baddie: Sucks to be you, loser. 🤣

Attachment: Blurry photo of a dark-haired man untying her heel strap.

Postmortem Baddie: Holy Shit!!!!

Cuntyest Bitch Alive: Respectfully, let's ignore him. Tell me what else did the idiots do. I need entertainment; Kashimo’s sleeping.

Perpetually Horny: He took me to a farmers’ market.

Postmortem Baddie: Nanami core.

Perpetually Horny: I pointed at some melons 🍈 and said, “Wow, those are big.”

Then, this man, without blinking, said, "I’ve seen bigger."

HR Baddie: What the fuk does that even mean?

Perpetually Horny: I’m scared. What has he seen.

Cuntyest Bitch Alive: You need to find out.

Perpetually Horny: No thanks.

Later in the night, there were other struggles going on.

Group Chat: Dad Crimes 💀 Anonymous

(Inc: Nanami, Gojo)

Father Time: She’s nesting.

Daddy: Did you see her reorganize the closet? At 3:40 AM?

Father Time: Yes. She put labels on the baby bottles.

Daddy: Yeah. She also labeled the spice rack.

Father Time: Do you think she’ll label us next?

Daddy: "Idiot 1" and "Idiot 2."

Father Time: Accurate.

---

A/N: OMG who do you think dark haired manz isss????? Three more chapters and then we either crash and burn in angst or soft-launch a happy ending. Choose wisely. (Comments fuel my Sukuna/Nanami agenda. Choose wisely.)

Next chapter 20 (alt ending 2.11) - The Fault Lines: The Honored One’s Guide to Fumbling the Bag (And Other Love Languages) - Part 2 - (Tumblr/Ao3)

All Works Masterlist

Beta - @blackrimmedrose

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