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nanamineedstherapy · 21 days ago

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Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

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

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.

A/N: 🚨🚨 Lobotomy Kaisen: Bootleg K-Drama Edition 🚨🚨 At this point, I am single-handedly running a low-budget, emotionally devastating K-drama, funded by ₩5 & the spare serotonin I found when my cat smacked me. This chapter? Peak “second lead deserved better” energy. If you squint (or are sadistic), our Nanago girlies are feasting tonight. To my loyal readers who send comments/messages—y’all are the reason this fic is still breathing. I had fully lost hope in this series bcs I thought no one wanted to read it anymore, & I had the worst writers block ever, but here we are, back from the grave. Small confession: I proofread this while high on my sleep meds (calm down, it’s all prescribed—ya girl’s got Olympic-level insomnia). So, if some bits feel like I hijacked my own fic mid-scene or if a random paragraph hits like Whiplash—congrats, you’ve found one of my self-inflicted plot derailments. Think of it as an Easter egg hunt: Find the bits that are just me roasting my own writing and/or hating on the men shamelessly. Bonus points if you guess which parts were written before vs. after I started hallucinating colors with smells. Don’t worry, next updates will be soon—turns out being delirious is my peak creative state because now I have too many ideas for my hands to be able to write before detaching themselves from me & asking for labor law rights. Now, let’s dive into this delicious dumpster fire. 🔥

Previous Chapter 15 (alt ending 2.6) - Ibiza (Tumblr/Ao3)

Chapter 16 (alt ending 2.7) - Placeholder: This Should Have Been Love

Few Years Ago: Before Realizing

The Golden Era of Group Chats (Before You Ruined Everything)

Group Chat: Gohoe & his pimps 🏴‍☠️📜🍷

(Created by Hentai Kakashi. The name changed hourly. Nanami kept changing it back to ‘No.’)

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: Did you eat?

You: Yes.

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: PROVE IT.

You: ??

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: SEND A PIC or it didn’t happs.

His English was still bad.

You: This is weird.

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: Stop entertaining him.

After a while of staging an “accidental” run-in with you that day, the men had to return home—not because they wanted to, but because Yaga was dangerously close to storming in and dragging them back to Japan by their ears. Nanami reluctantly dragged Gojo away, though the latter’s protests were loud enough to echo through the entire airport. You promised to stay in touch, waving them off with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

At first, you didn’t think much of it. Surely, they’d have someone back home—someone more suited to their chaotic, high-stakes lives. And after all the harmless flirting, they’d forget about you once they got back to fighting curses and dealing with the endless drama of the Jujutsu world.

But they didn’t.

Instead, they texted. Whenever they had time. And you replied whenever you had time. It started out fine. Normal, even.

The time zones made it tricky, but you’d figured out a system. Calls were rare—Nanami refused to let you stay up past midnight, and Gojo somehow always picked the worst possible times—but texting was manageable.

The group chat, though, was a disaster.

It existed mostly as a place to roast Gojo. He’d been banned from sending voice notes after holding down the button and belting out an entire off-key rendition of Smooth Operator with his cute English. Nanami only typed in full sentences, like an exasperated father monitoring his delinquent child. And you? You contributed memes, the occasional insult, and once a video of Megumi’s dogs destroying your latest gaming console prototype, which made Nanami send a single, ominous, "That was preventable."

Sometimes, Gojo’s texts were absolute nonsense:

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: If I die, tell everyone I was hot and mysterious.

You: No one thought you were mysterious.

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: No one thought you were hot either.

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: YOU KNOW WHAT. BOTH OF YOU ARE BLOCKED.

Or completely deranged:

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: What if we kissed but also you let me name your next game protagonist?

You: Oh no.

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: Don’t engage.

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: Come onnnn 😚 I already have names picked out:

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: 1. DomainDripLord

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: 2. SixEyesSnipes

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: 3. xX_LimitlessCarryGod_Xx

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: 4. InfinityFlexxer

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: 5. HollowPurplePapi

You: No one is calling you Papi, freak. Kento, please install parental control in his phone; he’s spending too much time with 14-year-olds.

Nanami’s texts were, as expected, normal and adult-like in comparison:

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: I read an article about the burnout in the gaming industry today. Are you facing similar challenges?

You: Yeah. Work’s been exhausting.

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: Take a break.

You: Wow. I didn’t think of that. Thanks, genius.

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: …

And yet, sometimes, he too could be unhinged:

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: Gojo is currently attempting to cook.

You: Oh god.

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: WHO SAID I COULDN’T??

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: The smoke alarm.

You: I just saw a guy at the store that looked exactly like a younger version of Kento.

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: OH MY GOD BABY NANAMIN?? WAS HE WEARING A SUIT???

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: I am blocking both of you.

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: [Image Attached: a blurry zoom-in of some random salaryman in a tan suit.]

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: NANAMI IS THIS YOUR SECRET SON???

You: DNA TEST WHEN?

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: You are both insufferable.

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: THAT'S NOT A NO.

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: [Nanami has left the chat.]

You: LMFAOOOO HE LEFT.

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: He’ll come back. He always does.

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: [Nanami has rejoined the chat.]

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: If either of you texts before 6 AM again, I will make sure you regret it.

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: SEE?? HE CAN’T STAY AWAY.

You: Stockholm syndrome, honestly.

Daddy Blade🗼⛓️: It is not Stockholm syndrome. It is suffering.

But beyond the chaos of the group chat, real conversations happened in private messages.

Gojo was an unpredictable texter. Sometimes he’d disappear for days, only to spam you with a series of completely unrelated messages at three in the morning.

03:03 AM

Hentai Kakashi: Hey. R u up?

03:07 AM

Hentai Kakashi: No wait. Sleep. Nanamin will kill me if he finds out I woke u up. Again.

03:09 AM

Hentai Kakashi: But like. If u are awake. I had a nightmare. It was about… ducks. A whole army of them. Staring. Judging. I think I have enemies in the bird community.

03:15 AM

Hentai Kakashi: …Ok I’ll stop now. Goodnight.

03:16 AM

Hentai Kakashi: But if u wake up and see this, pls validate me. Ducks are scary.

Nanami, on the other hand, texted with the precision of a man writing formal emails even when sleep-deprived.

07:30 AM

Tax Evasion Daddy: Good morning.

07:32 AM

Tax Evasion Daddy: I assume you are still asleep. That is good. Sleep is important.

07:45 AM

Tax Evasion Daddy: When you wake up, let me know if you need anything.

09:14 AM

Tax Evasion Daddy: I received an alert about a financial transaction on your account. Did you just spend an unreasonable amount of money on coffee and, if so, was it necessary?

09:16 AM

Tax Evasion Daddy: Never mind. That was a redundant question. Of course it was not necessary.

09:17 AM

Tax Evasion Daddy: I am not controlling your finances, but I am concerned about your caffeine intake.

09:45 AM

Tax Evasion Daddy: I hope you had breakfast.

10:00 AM

You: How'd you get my spending details??? 💀

But beyond the chaos, beneath all the sarcasm and petty fights, something real lingered in their messages.

Even in the absurdity of Gojo’s 3 AM texts, even in Nanami’s overly formal check-ins.

They weren’t just texting because they were bored.

And neither were you.

It should have been frustrating, but it wasn’t.

You started checking your phone between meetings, expecting their names to pop up. You caught yourself laughing at one of Gojo’s ridiculous voice messages. You reread Nanami’s texts at night, the weight of his words lingering long after you put your phone down.

You weren’t stupid. You knew what this meant.

And that was the problem.

Because you’d never let yourself want something like this.

So you did what you always did when something felt too big, too complicated. You ran.

Not literally. Not yet.

But you started responding less. You claimed you were busy—which wasn’t even a lie, just a convenient excuse. You let calls go to voicemail. The group chat became an unread notification you swiped away without a second thought.

It didn’t take them long to notice.

Gojo was the first to call you out.

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: You hate us now??? damn. Guess I'll go die in a ditch.

Sensei Slay☀️🦕: Or maybe you just love Nanamin more than me. Understandable. Tragic. But understandable.

Nanami’s response was quieter. Less obvious.

Sassy Daddy🗼⛓️: You’ve been distant. Is something wrong?

You stared at both messages for a long time, your thumb hovering over the screen. Then, because you were a coward, you pretended you never saw them.

Then the first time you ignored Gojo’s call, it was easy. A swipe of your finger, a breath held just long enough to pretend you didn’t see his name flash across your screen. The second time, Nanami called, and you let it ring until the silence settled into something heavier than guilt. By the fifth time, you started putting your phone on Do Not Disturb, convincing yourself it was because of work—because you were a trillionaire CEO with a company to run, not because your heart clenched every time you saw their names. Not because you felt like an idiot for wanting two men when you swore you’d never be the kind of person who couldn’t make a decision.

So you disappeared—not physically, not yet, but in the ways that mattered. Texts went unanswered, YouTube videos met with professional coldness. When Gojo sent a selfie of himself eating cake, whining about missing you, you left him on read. When Nanami sent a curt message asking if you were alright, you typed out a response—I’m fine, just busy—and stared at it for a full minute before deleting it.

You didn’t expect them to let it slide forever. But you didn’t expect them to show up, either.

It didn’t work.

Because two special-grade sorcerers were not the kind of men who let things go.

And the next time you walked into your office, sleep-deprived and convinced you’d successfully avoided your feelings, you found them both waiting for you.

Gojo was stretched out in your chair, his long legs propped up on your desk, sunglasses perched precariously on the bridge of his nose. Nanami stood beside him, arms crossed, his sharp gaze cutting through you like he’d already run out of patience.

You stopped in your tracks, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Surprise Sweetheart” Gojo drawled, a smirk tugging at his lips as he tilted his head to look at you.

Nanami didn’t smile. His voice was low, steady, and impossibly soft. “We need to talk.”

The jet lands before dawn. You didn’t know that, of course, not yet. You didn’t know that Gojo and Nanami spent the entire flight arguing about whether to ambush you at work or at home. (Nanami, of course, thought home was the better choice—less spectacle, less drama. Gojo, being Gojo, argued that spectacle and drama were necessary.)

You stopped dead.

Gojo grinned. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t our favorite CEO. What’s the matter, sweetheart? Forgot how to text?”

Nanami’s voice cut through, calm but firm. “We’re not here to play games. You’ve been avoiding us.”

Your throat went dry. “I’ve been busy.”

Your fingers twitched against your phone, a fight-or-flight response that neither of them would let you act on. “What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice sharper than you intended.

Nanami exhaled, slow and measured, like he was holding back a lecture. “We should be asking you that.”

You rolled your eyes, keeping your face carefully neutral. “I don’t have time for this. I have a meeting—”

“Canceled,” Gojo interrupted, leaning back in your chair with a grin that was far too smug for your liking. “Something about an emergency security issue? Wow, wonder who could’ve arranged that.”

You stared at him, your mouth parting in disbelief. “You—”

Nanami stepped in before you could finish. “You’ve been ignoring us,” he said, his voice steady, but there was an edge to it now, something dangerously close to frustration. “Avoiding us.”

You scoffed, looking anywhere but at them. “I’ve been busy.”

Gojo hummed, the sound low and teasing. “Busy running away?”

“Busy working,” you snapped, though the words felt hollow even as they left your mouth.

“Right,” Gojo drawled, his tone dripping with skepticism. “And we’re supposed to believe that?”

“I don’t really care what you believe,” you shot back, crossing your arms over your chest in a feeble attempt to shield yourself.

Nanami’s gaze sharpened, his eyes narrowing just enough to make your stomach twist. “Then say it.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Say what?”

Gojo leaned forward, resting his chin in his palm, amusement flickering across his face like he already knew the answer. “Say that you don’t have feelings for us. That’s why you’re avoiding us, right? Because you don’t care?”

Your stomach dropped. You hated how easy it was for them to see through you. Hated that your usual defenses crumbled the moment they stepped into the same room. Hated that they could strip you bare with nothing but a look and a few well-placed words.

Maybe it wasn’t too late to join Kurt Cobain if you jumped from this height.

You forced a too loud laugh, the sound brittle and unconvincing. “That’s ridiculous.”

Nanami’s jaw tightened, his patience clearly wearing thin. Gojo just tilted his head, watching you too closely, his piercing blue eyes cutting through every lie you tried to tell yourself.

“Then look me in the eyes and say it,” Gojo murmured, his voice soft but commanding.

You didn’t.

You couldn’t.

Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating, until Nanami finally broke it. “That’s what I thought,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with something that sounded almost like relief, but he was smirking too smugly for your liking.

Your throat tightened, your chest aching with the weight of everything you’d been trying to avoid. You wanted to argue, to deny it, to slip out of this conversation like you’d slipped out of their reach for weeks. But you couldn’t. Not when they were standing in front of you, not when the weight of your own feelings had finally caught up.

Gojo sighed, but for once, there was no teasing in his voice. Just something softer, something real. “You don’t have to pick, you know.”

That finally did it. Eighty-four floors were more than enough. “Kurt, please wait for me,” you thought.

Your breath was caught, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure they could hear it.

Nanami nodded, his expression softening just enough to make your chest ache. “We already decided. It’s the three of us. Not one or the other.”

The words hit harder than they should have. You’d spent weeks convincing yourself that loving them both was impossible, selfish, an equation that couldn’t be solved. But here they were, standing in front of you, telling you that the answer had always been simple.

You swallowed hard, gripping the edge of your desk like it was the only thing keeping you upright. “You’re both so dorky,” you muttered, your voice hoarse.

Gojo laughed, the sound bright and triumphant. “Yeah, but we’re your dorks.”

Nanami sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was already regretting this entire conversation. “Don’t encourage him.”

But there was relief in his voice. A quiet kind of victory.

And for the first time in weeks, you let yourself breathe.

---

Present Day

But that was before you fully let yourself fall for them, before you started having fleeting thoughts of a life with them—of lazy mornings tangled in sheets, of quiet evenings where their laughter filled the spaces between your heartbeats. Before you let yourself imagine what it would be like to belong to them, completely and irrevocably.

But now,

There was a line—an invisible, aching thing stretching between you and them. You weren’t sure when it had started forming, but you knew where it ended.

Right here.

Right now.

At the mall, with Gojo Satoru and Nanami Kento trailing behind you, whispering like you couldn’t hear them.

Something something mania.

You didn’t care to listen. You had other priorities—like replacing your third shattered phone this month and reclaiming some semblance of independence. For how long were you supposed to keep hijacking Nanami’s phone like a child? How long were you supposed to pretend that this was normal? That you were normal?

You reached the phone store, found the model you liked, and walked straight up to the support counter, waving a salesperson over.

“I like this one,” you said, your voice even, though your chest felt like it was cracking open. “Can you get me a higher storage version?”

The salesman smiled, nodding. “Great choice. Very privacy-forward. I’m sure we have what you need.”

He stepped away to grab the phone, and you exhaled slowly, rubbing your palm against the swell of your stomach. Six months. Six months of waiting, of watching them orbit each other like you were an afterthought.

A prisoner, not a partner.

The salesman returned, holding up the upgraded model. “This should work. Anything else?”

“Yes.” You reached for the box, your fingers brushing against the cool surface. “I’ll take two. And two SIM cards. One of them will pay.” You gestured vaguely toward Gojo and Nanami, who were still lost in their private discussion, their voices hushed but not enough.

“She’s spiraling, Kento.”

“She’s grieving, Satoru.”

“She’s—”

They stopped when they noticed the way the salesman was staring at them, waiting.

For a second, they looked like deer in headlights.

Then, resigned, Gojo fumbled for his card, barely looking at the total. Nanami sighed, shoulders tense, running a hand down his face. They weren’t paying attention. They never paid attention.

You took the chance to test the new phone’s camera, snapping a few selfies to see if the quality was worth the price. Another salesperson handed you an unopened box of the same variant, and you thanked them quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

At the counter, Gojo fumbled with his card, absentmindedly agreeing to every add-on the salesperson suggested. He was too busy arguing with Nanami—about you, about how you were “going insane,” about how they needed to “handle this.”

Behind you, a girl—one of the employees—perked up, her eyes widening as she stared at Gojo.

“Wait… are you Gojo?”

Gojo turned, slow as death, his sunglasses sliding down his nose just enough to reveal the sharp glint of his eyes. Nanami stiffened beside him, his hand twitching like he was ready to grab you and bolt.

You didn’t even blink, already typing out a message to Haibara. The girl’s voice was background noise, an annoyance you didn’t have the energy to acknowledge.

But she wasn’t deterred. “I saw you guys on TV. You’re, like… so strong.”

You felt Gojo gesturing—probably for her to shut the fuck up—but it was too late. The damage was done.

You turned slowly, your expression blank, your voice flat. “Yes,” you said, cutting through the awkward tension like a knife. “They are them. You can have them if you like.”

The girl’s blush deepened, her hands fluttering nervously. “Oh, no, I—”

“But don’t get too attached.” You tilted your head, smiling too sharp, too cold. “They’re only out until their surrogate wife’s babies are born. Then they’re going back to jail.”

Behind you, Gojo exhaled sharply. Nanami tensed, his jaw tightening as he stared at the floor like it might swallow him whole. The male salesman—who had been ringing up your order—looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

“…I just wanted to know how they’re so strong,” the girl mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper.

You smiled again. Fake. Strained. Hollow.

“Sure you did.”

A long silence stretched out, thick with something unnamed. The air in the store felt heavier, the fluorescent lights too bright, the hum of the AC too loud.

By the time the transaction was complete, the energy in the store had shifted. The male salesman was glaring at his co-worker like she’d nearly cost him his commission.

You didn’t care. You took the bag and walked out, your steps quick and deliberate, straight toward the next store.

You picked up some photography accessories, shooting a death glare at any male salesman who dared approach you, ready to mansplain his way into a commission. You didn’t need to listen to some mediocre Instagram photographer explain something you’d been doing nearly all your life. (Okay, fine, maybe you were projecting your anger onto innocent retail workers instead of your husbands, but in your defense, this wasn’t about them.)

A light, a few backdrops, a tripod—whatever you needed, you already knew which ones you wanted. The motions were mechanical, your mind elsewhere, your body moving on autopilot like a sleep-deprived robot with a shopping list.

The salesman handed you the receipt, and you took it without a word, your hands trembling slightly as you shoved it into your bag. You didn’t look at Gojo or Nanami as you turned and walked away, your steps quick and deliberate.

Then, before you knew it, you were being dragged toward the Mommy & Me stores.

And the walls started closing in again.

Gojo and Nanami flanked you, their voices low but insistent, cutting through the haze of your thoughts like knives.

“You need to rest,” Nanami said, his tone firm but distant, like he was speaking to a stranger—like he hadn’t spent the last six months auctioning off your bed, your life, your body.

“You’re overdoing it,” Gojo added, his usual teasing replaced by something sharper, something that felt too much like concern. It was the kind of concern that made your skin crawl, the kind that felt less like care and more like control.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. Not when your chest felt like it was cracking open, not when every step felt like a battle you were losing.

The store was a blur of pastel colors and soft fabrics, a world that felt so far removed from the chaos in your mind. You stared at the tiny clothes, the cribs, the stuffed animals, and felt nothing.

Nothing but the weight of the twins growing inside you.

Nothing but the ache in your chest, the hollow emptiness that no amount of baby clothes or nursery decor could fill.

Nothing but the crushing realization that the men beside you—the fathers of your children—saw you as a problem to be managed, not a person.

You were drowning, and they were too busy arguing about the water to notice.

The baby store smelled of lavender and plastic, a cloying mix of nostalgia and artificial newness. You stood between Gojo and Nanami, one hand pressed absently to your belly, the other gripping the handle of the shopping cart as they debated the necessity of a wipe warmer.

“I’m just saying, if we’re going all out, we might as well,” Gojo mused, flipping the box over to read the specs like it was a tactical decision. “Imagine tiny little butts being caressed by warmth.”

Nanami barely glanced at him. “It’s a scam. Babies don’t care about temperature consistency.”

“They don’t care about their own temperature consistency. We, however, should care. What if cold wipes wake them up at night?”

“They’ll be awake anyway.”

You stood between them, a silent observer in your own story. Once, their bickering had been the background noise of your happiest moments. Now, it felt like white noise, like the hum of an appliance left running in a room you were never in.

“Like you both will be there when they need diaper changes,” you snorted, walking ahead, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

They didn’t hear you. Or they did but acted like you were some teenager, best left ignored.

You stared at the row of cribs. White. Mahogany. Scandinavian minimalism. They all blurred together. It wasn’t like they needed your opinion.

“The grey one matches the nursery theme,” Nanami said, nodding toward a sleek, modern crib.

Gojo hummed in agreement. “Yeah. And it’ll look good next to the changing table.”

You hadn’t even talked about it, let alone agreed to a theme. You opened your mouth. Closed it. They had already moved on.

The raccoon’s wardrobe was next—because, of course, they had to take that away from you too.

Gojo held up a tiny hoodie, designed for some bougie suburban dog. “You think the little guy would like this?”

Nanami gave him a long, exhausted stare. “It’s a raccoon.”

Gojo grinned. “Don’t talk about feral rizz like that.”

They shared one of those looks. The kind that made your chest tighten like a wound being pulled shut with the wrong stitches.

You exhaled. Slowly.

Gojo turned to you suddenly, almost like he had just now remembered you were here. “You okay, sweetheart?”

Your hand moved to your belly, a habit, a tether.

“I’m fine,” you said, which was mostly true.

They nodded and went back to discussing the best baby monitor on the market, and you wondered, idly, if they would even notice if you walked out.

You were the one carrying the twins. The reason they were here, picking out soft blankets and pacifiers. But standing there, watching them plan a future with such efficiency, such ease, you couldn’t help but feel like the unnecessary part of a perfectly functional equation.

Like a placeholder.

The baby store faded behind you, swallowed by the artificial glow of the mall’s overhead lights. You walked, your pace measured but unhurried, one hand resting absently on your belly like you were carrying the weight of the world and not just two tiny humans.

They wouldn’t notice you were gone. Not immediately. Maybe not at all.

The food court smelled like salt, grease, and something sweet frying in oil—like nostalgia and poor life choices. It was loud—families arguing over pizza, teenagers screeching over TikTok trends, and the occasional lost businessman tapping furiously on his phone like he was single-handedly saving the economy.

You ordered a burger. No truffle aioli, no organic bullshit, no “let’s elevate this dining experience," no "Darling, you can’t eat Nutella straight from the jar then horde the jar because you are too swollen to move,” no "Pookie, you fart stinky now pregnant,” nonsense—just a plain, greasy burger wrapped in crinkled paper. The cashier looked at your stomach, then at you, and asked if you wanted a second one.

You did.

You sat alone at a table, the kind that wobbled slightly if you leaned the wrong way. The first bite was perfect—warm, messy, real. The kind of real that wasn’t curated, wasn’t planned or debated over like a fucking nursery theme.

You chewed slowly, scrolling through your phone and watching a video of a raccoon stealing a hot dog from a toddler (it may or may not have featured Haibara and your feral son). It was the kind of content that made you feel seen.

Back in the store, Gojo was probably making some ridiculous argument about baby socks needing to be designer. “They’re not just socks, Nanami, they’re a statement,” he’d say, holding up a pair with little Gucci logos on them. Nanami would be exhaling through his nose, just patient enough to entertain it, but you could practically hear the “I’m too old for this” in his silence. Let them argue over wipe warmers and crib aesthetics.

Maybe, at some point, they’d realize you were gone.

Maybe.

But right now, you were just a woman eating a burger. Not a CEO. Not a wife. Not the mother of their children.

Just you.

---

Their POV

Inside the store, Nanami’s phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

He shouldn’t have answered. He knew better. But his instincts told him otherwise, whispered that it could be Ino, that it could be someone from the higher-ups.

So he pressed accept.

A low chuckle slithered through the receiver, slow, deliberate. Unfamiliar. Familiar.

"Wow. You’re dumber than I thought."

His spine went rigid. “Who is this?”

"Aww, you forgot about me so easily after our wild night together, handsome?" The voice was all honeyed amusement, saccharine and sharp, like the taste of something spoiled.

“I'm loyal and I don't have time for your pranks. Good day.”

"You sound tense. Something wrong? Lose something?"

Nanami turned sharply. Gojo was still there. He was eyeing some godforsaken breastfeeding couch, muttering about comfort and lumbar support like the idiot he was.

But you—

His breath stalled.

"Where is she?" Nanami’s voice tore through the store, rough, unhinged, barely human.

Heads turned. Parents stared. A mother clutched her toddler closer.

Gojo twisted, the lazy slouch of his shoulders snapping into attention. His head swiveled. His Six Eyes darting around instantly.

But you weren’t there.

You weren’t in the aisle.

You weren’t anywhere.

He couldn’t feel you.

Not the cursed energy from your womb. Not the subtle pulse of your presence that had been second nature now.

Gone.

Nanami was still yelling, his grip on the phone so tight his knuckles blanched. “Who are you? If you think you can take her without consequences, I will personally cut your body into so many pieces your people won’t even recognize you.”

"Aww, so romantic." The voice practically purred. "Finally, you’re respecting your one true archnemesis."

The air thinned.

His stomach dropped.

"What do you want, Haibara?" His voice was deathly quiet.

"Me? Nothing." A pause, languid, mocking. Then, smooth as silk, Haibara added, "but the rest of the world wants your wife."

Nanami’s breath left him. Gojo came over, his face pale, his Six Eyes scanning the store like he could will you back into existence. Nanami turned to him, his fingers going numb around the phone as he lowered the volume and fumbled to put it on speaker.

"She’s got a bounty, Kento-dono." Haibara’s voice was light, almost lazy, but the weight of his words suffocated. "Crisp five hundred billion dollars. Do you know how many zeros are in that?" A chuckle. "Last I checked, quite a few. If you don’t know why, then ask your other idiot; he’ll know what bounty means on babies' heads."

Cursed twins.

A rare commodity.

Of course, it made sense.

Nanami’s grip on his phone shook. His vision blurred.

Gojo’s panic flickered white-hot, burning through the confusion, through the nausea curling in his stomach. His hand clenched at his side, his jaw tight enough to shatter teeth.

He knew what was happening. He'd had the same bounty on his head when he was born too.

"I called to let you know about the bounty on her head, and because I know you lost her again," Haibara continued, voice amused. "Thought maybe you two morons should keep a better eye on her. She keeps running off, and two Special Grades can’t even keep a regular non-sorcerer pregnant woman in check?"

Nanami couldn’t breathe.

“She was—she was just here.” Gojo’s voice was thin, like he was trying to convince himself, like if he just said it enough, reality would bend and you would be back, glaring at them, rolling your eyes, safe.

But you weren’t here.

You weren’t anywhere.

"How do you know we lost her?" Nanami’s voice was barely controlled. Feral. "Do you have her with you?"

"Nope." Haibara popped the ‘p’ like this was a joke. "I’m just better at keeping an eye on her. Even when I’m away. Maybe I should’ve had the Six Eyes." He laughed.

Gojo twitched.

"Just tell us where she is," Nanami ground out, the blood roaring in his ears. "I don’t have time for your buffoonery."

"Oh? Do you need me to throw out the trash too? Wipe your bum while I’m at it?"

Gojo’s fists trembled. The tips of his fingers burned.

He needed to find you. Now.

"How long has the bounty been up?" His voice was eerily calm. The storm before the end.

"Dunno," Haibara hummed. "Fifteen minutes, maybe? But assassins are already bidding. Thought you would’ve figured it out by now."

Fifteen minutes.

That was eternities in their world.

Gojo felt sick.

Haibara sighed, almost disappointed. "Guess you two have been distracted. By diapers. By a future you both don’t even get to have with her."

Nanami felt something in his chest crack.

Gojo didn’t blink. His head pounded. His throat closed up.

A beat. "Don’t worry. I’ll wipe her tears when you both are sent to jail. Never even having held your kids."

The call ended.

The silence that followed was suffocating, thick like tar, pressing down on them until it felt like they couldn’t breathe.

Nanami’s pulse thundered, but his body felt numb, like the blood in his veins had turned to ice.

Gojo exhaled slowly. Too controlled. Too blank. Not real.

“We don’t tell her.”

Nanami swallowed, but the bile clung to his tongue.

“No.”

Gojo turned in a full circle, his Six Eyes scanning the store with a desperation that made his chest ache.

“She was right here,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

He looked at the empty space where you should have been, where you had been just moments ago. His hands clenched at his sides, fingernails cutting into his palms. She was right here.

He took another step, eyes darting across the store. His breath was sharp, shallow, desperate.

Nanami was already scanning the store, his fingers flexing at his side. Too rigid. Too restrained. His heartbeat drummed against his ribs. Fitting rooms. Entrances. Exits. Every possibility turned over in his mind, methodical even as panic curled around the edges of his thoughts.

"Check the fitting rooms. I’ll check outside."

“No.”

Gojo’s voice was a blade, cutting through the air. His fingers flicked up, Six Eyes burning. His sunglasses were already gone, abandoned, shoved into his pocket like an afterthought.

A pause. A breath.

Nothing.

“I don’t see her.”

Nanami froze.

If Gojo couldn’t see you, it meant you weren’t just a few aisles away, not lingering by the checkout line, not waiting by the bathroom. It meant you were gone.

Mall security was useless. The intercom announcements, the slow, confused clerks asking what you were wearing, asking if they had a recent photo. As if they needed to describe you.

You wouldn’t just leave.

Nanami’s jaw locked. “She wouldn’t just leave.” His voice was tight, forced through clenched teeth. “Would she?”

Gojo’s hands curled into fists. His breath stuttered.

“She’s six months pregnant, Kento.” His voice was hoarse, like the words scraped against his throat. “She wouldn’t just—” His breath hitched. “Unless we made her feel like she had to.”

The thought hit them both at the same time.

The way you had been quiet lately. Not in your usual, calculating way. Not the way you went silent before striking a deal or winning an argument. But distant.

The way you let them pay for everything, when you were the kind of woman who once bought entire companies just to prove a point.

The way you had stood there, hands on your belly, as they planned a life around you, but never with you.

Gojo was pacing, running a hand through his hair like he wanted to tear it out. The sight did nothing to calm the sick feeling creeping up Nanami’s throat.

Nanami swore under his breath. “We’re fucking idiots.”

Gojo was already moving.

Three minutes.

Two of them wasted on panic.

On scanning every store, every floor.

On his mind spinning through the worst possibilities.

What if someone had found you first?

What if they never—

Then—

On the corner of the tenth floor, in a wheelchair, there you were.

Eyes closed.

They were near you in an instant, but Gojo ran faster than Nanami, something frantic in his movements, like he was reliving a childhood memory he’d buried deep. He appeared next to you, his hands trembling as he pulled you close, his voice breaking as he spoke.

“Hey, why—hey, wake up!” he said frantically, his hands cupping your face, slapping your cheeks lightly as if trying to rouse you from a nightmare.

But before Nanami could check your pulse or shush Gojo, you blinked blearily, your voice soft and groggy. “Ahh. I just fell asleep. Let me go.” You tried to shove Gojo away, but your voice came out pleading, more vulnerable than you wanted it to be. You got up, only to realize he wasn’t letting go, his arms tightening around you like he was afraid you’d vanish again.

---

Your POV

And he did. He held you close, the way he used to before he’d taken everything into his hands and ruined it. His grip was desperate, his breath uneven against your hair, and for a moment, you let yourself sink into it. Not because you wanted to, but because you could feel the fear radiating off him, the way his hands shook as they pressed into your back.

You didn’t know what was going on, but you were going to enjoy their suffering.

“Why’d you run off?” Nanami asked, his voice low but strained, like he was holding back a storm. “If you were tired, you could’ve said so.”

When you didn’t respond, Nanami assumed the worst, his jaw tightening as he glanced at Gojo. Gojo, ever the one to voice the unspoken, broke the hug to look at you, his hands still gripping your shoulders like he thought you might bolt.

“You were trying to run away and got tired, so you fell asleep?” he asked, his voice cracking at the edges.

Nanami’s eyes looked pained, his usual composure slipping as he stared at you, waiting for an answer you weren’t ready to give.

"Are you insane?" Gojo’s voice was sharp, almost shaking.

“You’re pregnant. You don’t just—” He exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to his forehead like it physically hurt to process what was happening.

You pointed at the food court like a scolded child, your expression blank.

Gojo’s laugh was choked. A breathy, broken sound.

"A fucking burger, sweetheart? You ditched us for a burger?"

You didn’t look at them.

Now, they were the ones feeling invisible.

“Why were you sitting on a wheelchair? It’s not our fault to be worried,” Nanami said, his voice rising slightly, the frustration bleeding through.

You shrugged, your tone dripping with sarcasm. “I don’t know, Kento. You didn’t put enough chairs in the mall anticipating my arrival. How callous of you.”

The insult sounded weak even to your own ears, but you still turned and walked away like it made perfect sense.

---

You had fought.

You had screamed yourself hoarse in a parking lot, your voice cracking on every expletive, every demand.

You had taken a step back, your pulse pounding. “I’m driving.”

Nanami’s voice was low, firm.

“No, you’re not.”

Something inside you snapped.

“You’re not my fucking babysitters.”

Gojo didn’t flinch, didn’t meet your eyes. “We know.”

Your nails dug into your palms. “Then why the hell are you treating me like a goddamn child?”

Nanami’s head tilted, his gaze sharp. “Do you know how fast you were driving earlier?”

You set your jaw. “I didn’t crash.”

“Yet.”

The word cut deeper than you expected.

"You’re not fucking serious."

"You’re not actually banning me from driving—"

"Like I’m some delicate little—!"

But they wouldn’t budge.

Nanami’s jaw was set, unmovable, his hands clenched at his sides. Gojo wouldn’t even engage, wouldn’t throw the usual “aww, sweetheart, don’t be mad at us” line your way.

They had already decided.

You hadn’t mattered in that decision.

Gojo had tried to coax at first. Soft words, gentle hands reaching for yours. You had slapped them away.

Then, Nanami snapped.

"You almost killed them."

The weight of it hit your chest, something hot and tight and suffocating.

You wanted to argue, to scream, to rip the keys out of Gojo’s hand and prove them wrong.

But Nanami’s eyes pinned you in place.

Gojo, usually so quick to defuse things, said nothing.

Neither of them would budge.

The world felt smaller.

Like a trap had been laid around you before you even realized it.

And when Nanami exhaled, his eyes flickering over your face, his voice softened.

“Get in the car.”

The parking lot was suddenly too quiet.

Nanami was breathing hard, like he had forced the words out against his will. His fingers flexed, curled, dug into his palms like he was holding something back.

Gojo wasn’t looking at either of you. His lips parted, then shut. Like there was nothing to say that could fix this.

And maybe there wasn’t.

Because the worst part?

They were right.

You had driven too fast. Too reckless. Like you had something to outrun.

And now?

They were overcorrecting.

The leash tightening.

And you could do nothing but choke on it.

They didn’t let you drive.

That was the first sign something was wrong.

You reached for the passenger’s side door, but Nanami was already there, his hand closing over your wrist with careful, deliberate restraint. No force, no brute strength—just quiet, unshakable control.

"The back seat," he said.

Not the passenger seat.

The backseat.

Not a request. Not a suggestion.

A verdict.

Nanami opened the back door for you, his face impassive, too neutral. That dangerous stillness he fell into when he was hiding something, when he was choosing his words carefully, when he thought you were too fragile or volatile.

Gojo didn’t crack a joke. Didn’t tease you for looking pissed. Didn’t even flash that usual “baby, trust me” grin.

They didn’t comment on the way your shoulders shook.

Didn’t say a word about the way you turned your face to the window.

Didn’t acknowledge the way you looked, for just a second—

Like you might cry.

Gojo just shut the door after you, slid into the driver’s seat, and started the car like this was normal.

Like you hadn’t spent your entire life steering yourself, controlling the wheel, deciding the speed.

Like you hadn’t spent the last six months fighting to not become a passenger in your own life.

Like you hadn’t been the one navigating the world before they even knew your name.

The car pulled out of the lot in silence.

You stared at the back of Gojo’s head, at the tense line of his shoulders. He wouldn’t even meet your reflection in the rearview mirror.

That sick, crawling feeling in your gut didn’t fade.

You stared out the window, arms crossed over your belly, jaw tight enough to hurt. Your babies shifted inside you. You didn’t know if it was from your tension or theirs.

---

Soon, Jujutsu Tech. loomed ahead, dark and empty, carrying the kind of stillness that only places drenched in death could hold.

"I want to go home," you said, your voice flat, distant, barely concealing the anger burning underneath.

Gojo turned, smiling, but it was wrong. Too thin. It barely touched his eyes.

“We won’t be long, sweetheart.”

A lie.

Nanami’s fingers brushed your wrist. A grounding touch. A silent plea. Maybe an apology.

You stared at his hand like he was touching someone else.

Then they were gone, swallowed by the heavy wooden doors.

You sat there in the locked car, tapping your nails against your phone case, opening and closing an app without reading a single word.

The minutes dragged.

You leaned back against the seat, staring up at the sky.

Inside, something was happening. Something big.

You could tell by the way the air shifted.

By the way the crows in the trees scattered.

---

Their POV

Inside, the air was thick with something rotting.

Not literally—though the higher-ups always carried the stench of old paper and slow decay—but something worse. Something insidious.

Gojo stood loose-limbed, hands in his pockets, head tilted just so. A predator’s angle. Nanami had that look—the one that meant he was already seeing blood.

Across from them, the elders sat in their sunken chairs, bodies swallowed by the deep shadows of the paper screens. Silent spectators to their own machinations.

Nanami spoke first. “How long?”

The head elder blinked, slow and disinterested. “Excuse me?”

“How long,” Nanami repeated, voice even, “have you known about the bounty?”

The elder gave a thin smile. “Since the moment it was placed, of course.”

Gojo laughed, sharp and ugly. “Of course.” He turned to Nanami. “They knew. They sat on it. Probably made bets on how long it would take for us to notice.”

Nanami inhaled slowly. Exhaled. “Why weren’t we told?”

The elder’s sigh was almost theatrical. “Because it was irrelevant.” He tilted his head, birdlike. “If you had been competent enough, you would have realized much sooner.”

Something in Gojo’s expression went blank. Empty in a way that was dangerous. “Right. Because why warn the people actually protecting her, right?”

A second elder, thinner and somehow more cruel, tapped his fingers against the table. “You misunderstand, Satoru.” His voice was soft. “We wanted you to notice.”

The temperature in the room dropped.

Nanami’s fists clenched. “Explain.”

The elder’s smile widened, and when he spoke again, it was with the confidence of a man who had never once feared consequence.

“You should get rid of her.”

Silence.

Then, smooth as poison—

“Your very existence has already increased the world’s cursed energy tenfold. You want us to believe this pregnancy was an accident? That you, the strongest, somehow failed to control your own body?” He clicked his tongue. “How sloppy, Satoru.”

Gojo’s jaw ticked.

The elder leaned forward. “Tell me—what do you think those things will become? Ordinary sorcerers?” A chuckle, dry as old paper. “They’ll be anomalies. Unstable. Stronger than you, in ways even you cannot predict. If they survive.” A pause. “And that is an uncertainty.”

Nanami didn’t move, but something coiled behind his ribs.

“They could die in the womb, you know.” The elder’s voice was almost gentle. “Too much power, too small a vessel. You should be grateful. It would be kinder than what awaits them.”

Gojo’s fingers twitched.

The elder continued, undeterred. “But let’s say they do survive. That you don’t watch them wither from the inside out.” His smile thinned. “What then? You think the world will let them live?”

A long pause.

“We don’t need them.” The elder’s voice turned flat. “We need control.” A tilt of his head. “They would be better off as cursed objects. A weapon to be wielded, rather than something that could one day turn against us.”

He folded his hands.

“You already make things difficult. Why multiply the problem?”

Silence.

Gojo blinked once. Then again, like he hadn’t quite heard.

Nanami—who had spent his entire life perfecting the art of restraint—moved first.

His ratio blade cut through the air, through bone, through everything the elder had been. His head hit the floor with a wet thud.

Gojo followed. No Limitless, no Infinity—just force. His hands closing around the second elder’s throat, his smile sharp, shining.

“Wrong answer.”

It was over in seconds.

No grand battle. No drawn-out screams.

Just work.

The kind of work that left blood in the cracks of your hands and the scent of death in your hair.

Nanami exhaled. Gojo wiped his hands on his dark pants like he had touched something dirty.

“They were never gonna let her live,” Gojo murmured.

“They were never going to warn us.”

A long pause.

Then Gojo grinned, all teeth, all vicious relief. “Well. Problem solved.”

Nanami sighed. “Let’s go before she gets impatient.”

Outside, you were still sitting in the car.

Unaware of how close you had come to not existing at all.

---

Your POV

You were starving. Again.

Pregnancy did that—one second, you were fine, the next, your body was demanding something salty and fried like it was a life-or-death situation.

The car was too quiet. The night was too still. You drummed your fingers against the door, the rhythm sharp and impatient. Your entire existence had been reduced to craving fulfillment, and right now, that fulfillment needed to be deep-fried and covered in salt.

Then—movement.

A teenager, white-haired, passing by with his hands stuffed in his pockets, face partially obscured.

Target acquired.

You rolled down the window. “Hey, kid.”

He stopped, turned, and blinked at you.

“Do me a favor,” you said, pulling out a crisp bill and holding it out. “Run into the store and grab me a soda. And—” you paused, adjusting your outfit because you didn’t want to be bullied for a mid-fit (he seemed like the type who would)—“some samosas or chips. Just get whatever looks good.”

The teenager tilted his head. “Shake.”

You frowned. “No. Soda.”

“Bonito flakes.”

“…What?”

He nodded, very serious. “Salmon.”

You inhaled deeply through your nose. “No. Soda. Chips. Something salty. Preferably fried.”

“Bonito flakes.”

Your eye twitched. “Are you messing with me?”

“Shake.”

A pause. A long, painful pause.

You stared at him. He stared back.

The tension thickened.

A single leaf drifted by, carried on the wind.

Finally, you pinched the bridge of your nose. “You know what? Never mind. Just get me Shoko.”

“Salmon.”

You shot him a look.

And then—

“Uh, hey.”

A new voice. A new presence.

You turned to see a dark-haired young man walking toward you, his expression a mix of mild concern and secondhand embarrassment.

The teenager—Menace Flakes—perked up. “Shake.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” The newcomer sighed, rubbing his temple before looking at you. “Sorry, he’s not trying to mess with you. That’s just... how he talks.”

The dark-haired guy scratched the other’s cheek. “Sort of. It’s his cursed technique.”

Well, that was oddly homoerotic for some reason, but it wasn’t your problem.

Then his words caught you off guard. You glanced back at Menace Flakes, who blinked at you expectantly, as if he hadn’t just given you a goddamn aneurysm.

“Cursed technique?”

“Yeah,” the new guy replied. “His words make things happen. If he said something normal like ‘give me a Lambo,’ it could go south real fast.”

Huh. Weird.

You exhaled. “Fine. Whatever.” You waved a hand. “Could you buy me something to eat? You know how pregnancy is.”

The new guy nodded, but didn’t move.

Instead, his expression shifted—subtle, but sharp.

His eyes drifted downward.

Not at you.

At your stomach.

You tensed.

The air around you shifted, and for the first time, you saw his shoulders square, his stance change—like he had just registered something wrong.

“You’re—” He hesitated. “What are you?”

Your jaw locked.

Not who.

What.

Your stomach. The part of you that was currently housing two tiny freaks of nature.

He was looking at it like it was a nuclear warhead.

You exhaled slowly. “You cannot be serious.”

But he was. His fingers twitched at his side, cursed energy humming just beneath the surface.

“I can feel it,” he muttered, eyes locked on your stomach like it was about to lunge at him. “The cursed energy—it's massive. It’s—unnatural.”

You stared at him. “Yeah, no shit. I’m six months pregnant with Gojo Satoru’s kids.”

He did not look reassured.

“You are lying,” he said flatly. “No women want him.”

Menace Flakes, meanwhile, nodded sagely. “Salmon.”

“Stop helping,” you snapped.

---

The dark-haired one exhaled sharply, clearly debating whether to exorcise you, arrest you, or just straight-up pass out.

And then—

The air split open with a crack.

A presence—massive, overwhelming, and unmistakably obnoxious.

And then—

“SWEETHEART! BABY! LOVE OF MY LIFE!”

Gojo Satoru exploded onto the scene, arms spread wide, sunglasses slightly crooked, radiating pure, undiluted drama like he had just crash-landed in a soap opera.

The dark-haired one froze.

Menace Flakes blinked.

The pregnant woman in question exhaled. “Oh, great.”

Gojo landed beside you in a flourish of long limbs and expensive fabric, dramatically pressing a hand over his heart like he was personally enduring your suffering. “I felt your distress from inside the building and thought—oh no! My delicate, vulnerable wife must be suffering!”

You stared at him, unimpressed. “I was just trying to get them to buy me a soda.”

Gojo gasped, looking scandalized. “WITHOUT ME?”

The dark-haired one, still standing there, fists clenched, visibly struggling to process any of this, finally managed, “Wait—what?”

Gojo turned to him with the kind of slow, patronizing patience that made you want to file for divorce on the spot. “Yuta-kun.” He gestured toward you with a flourish, his tone unbearably smug. “Meet my wife.”

Yuta’s soul momentarily left his body.

He turned to you.

Turned back to Gojo.

Then back to you.

“She’s married to you?”

Gojo grinned. “Yes.”

“…Willingly?”

Gojo staggered back like he’d just been mortally wounded. “Excuse me, Yuta, I’ll have you know my wife adores me.” He turned to you, batting his lashes and pouting his lips in a way that made your insides almost immediately forgive him—like he could do no wrong. “Right, sweetheart?”

Familiar heat dropped in your stomach; he hadn’t looked at you like this in months.

But the way he was acting made you wonder if he was bipolar, like the unlicensed part-time mental health diagnostician you were.

A few months ago, you’d turned to psychology and philosophy to try to justify his antics or at least understand the reasoning behind them, but then you’d given up—mostly because you realized that even Aristotle and Carl Jung would be confused.

You stared at him. Then, without breaking eye contact—

“I was literally about to walk into traffic.”

Gojo cackled, delighted. “Classic my wife!”

Yuta, meanwhile, was still trying to reboot his brain. “And the cursed energy—?”

Gojo clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Ah, yes, my future children. Purse friendly—Gojo's, if you will.”

Yuta made a noise that could only be described as an existential wheeze. “Sensei, you’re telling me she’s pregnant with your kids, and that’s why she’s emitting that much cursed energy?”

And then—

A new voice.

Calm. Measured. Deeply exhausted.

Nanami, walking up like he had just spent the last ten minutes cleaning up Gojo’s mess, casually fixing his cuffs as he passed a hand over Menace Flakes’s head.

“Our kids.”

Yuta’s soul made a desperate attempt to leave his mortal shell.

Gojo beamed, clapping his hands together. “Yep! Kento’s involved too!”

Yuta let out a strangled sound, while Menace Flakes—completely unfazed—nodded. “Okka.”

“Thank you, Toge-kun.” Nanami said.

Gojo finally turned back to you, all smiles. “Now, my love, my moon, my gorgeous trillionaire—what’s this I hear about you running off?”

You exhaled sharply. “I was hungry, and you idiots locked me in my own car.”

Gojo gasped, reeling. “A travesty!” He turned to Nanami. “Ken Ken, we’ve wronged her.”

Nanami sighed. “You wronged her.”

“I wronged her,” Gojo conceded solemnly. Then, bright again—“So! Riceballs? Soda? My life’s mission is now to make sure my pregnant goddess is fed.”

And with that, Gojo climbed through the window of the car like an overgrown raccoon, all his limbs too much like giant spiders in a miniature toy car, while you stared at him in abject seen-it-all.

Nanami, a functional adult, got inside like a normal person. “See you around, Yuta. Inumaki-kun.”

Meanwhile, Yuta just stood there, staring into the void, rethinking every single life choice that had led him to this moment.

Inumaki patted his arm.

“Bonito flakes.”

---

Their POV

It had started to rain when Yuta and Toge walked off.

It came down in sheets, soaking through your clothes, clinging to your skin like a second betrayal. The city blurred around you—distant headlights, muted neon signs bleeding into puddles on the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, a car horn blared, muffled by the downpour.

But you didn’t run.

You walked away.

You didn’t run.

And that was worse.

Gojo’s heart stuttered in his chest, his mind racing to string together words fast enough to stop you, to slow you down, to do something before you slipped too far from reach. The cold wrapped around your frame, tightening like an omen, and he hated it—hated the way it took the space he was supposed to fill.

"Hey, wait up!" His voice cut through the storm, sharp with frustration. But beneath it—something raw. Something he didn’t have the luxury of hiding anymore.

You didn’t stop.

Nanami exhaled sharply beside him, his eyes locked on the way your shoulders curled inward, how the rain clung to your skin like a second betrayal. Your steps were slow, measured, as if you were daring them to catch up. Daring them to prove you wrong.

You wouldn’t have left if you thought they’d follow.

That truth lodged itself deep, ugly and undeniable, and it made Nanami’s jaw go tight, made Gojo’s hands clench at his sides.

Then—

"Darling."

Nanami’s voice, low and steady, cut through the storm. No hesitation. No desperation. Just certainty, like he was willing you to turn back.

And you froze.

Gojo felt it before he saw it—that moment of impact, the unspoken recoil of a wounded animal caught in headlights. Not fear. No. Worse.

A kind of hurt so deep it turned to silence.

When you turned, your eyes burned—lit with something Gojo had never seen before. Something that made his breath catch in his throat. He had seen you angry before, seen you upset, seen you hurt. But this—this was different.

"I’m not a project," you said, your voice cracked open at the edges. "I’m not something you can fix."

Gojo flinched.

Actually, physically flinched.

The smirk that usually softened his presence was gone, stripped away by the weight of what you had become under their hands. And in its place—something uncomfortably human. Something like guilt.

"We’re not trying to fix you," he murmured, softer than he ever spoke.

You laughed. Short. Sharp. Bitter.

Nanami felt it like a shard of glass pressed into his ribs.

"Then what the hell are you trying to do?" you demanded, your voice full of something neither of them had ever been able to name. "Because it sure as hell doesn’t feel like you’re trying to be with me."

Nanami stepped forward. Not out of anger—out of control. His hands curled into fists at his sides, fighting the instinct to reach for you. To pull you back in. To erase whatever distance you had put between them.

"We’re trying to help," he said, slow, careful, but even he could feel the crack forming.

"Help?" You spat the word like poison. "Is that what you call it? Whispering behind my back? Making decisions for me? Acting like I’m some delicate fucking thing you have to handle?"

Gojo moved before he could stop himself, before he could think. His hand hovered in the air, fingertips twitching, unsure.

Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you.

Like he already knew he had lost that right.

"We’re just worried about you," he whispered.

You stepped back.

And that—more than the words, more than the rain, more than anything else—was what made the air between you go thin.

Gojo and Nanami exchanged a look.

You hated them for it.

Hated the way they always seemed to understand each other when you couldn’t even get them to look at you like you mattered.

Finally, Nanami broke the silence. "We see you," he said. "We’ve always seen you."

Your breath hitched. Your hands curled into fists.

Gojo knew what came next before it happened.

He saw it in the set of your shoulders, in the way the weight of everything—the waiting, the watching, the giving, the sacrificing—broke you down all at once.

And then you snapped.

“What exactly have you two done in all of this time?” Your voice was low, dangerous. “I’ve been here—sitting, waiting, watching you both… loving you, supporting you, making sacrifices…”

You were shaking now, the weight of it all crashing down on you.

Gojo wanted to say something.

Nanami wanted to fix it.

But they both knew—

---

Nanami’s POV

She wasn’t something they could fix.

He knew that now.

It was in the way she stood, shoulders squared despite the weight pressing down on her. The rain clung to her skin, darkened her hair, but she didn’t shiver. She didn’t fold in on herself like before.

She just looked at them, and for the first time, Nanami realized she wasn’t waiting for an answer.

Because she already knew what she wanted to say.

"What have you done?"

Her voice cut through the rain, sharp and jagged as glass.

"Have you done anything but murder people for me? Huh? Have you done anything but that, because I’m still here. I’m still left behind! I’m six months pregnant, carrying twins, and all you’ve given me is your guilt and your selfishness!"

Nanami felt Gojo tense beside him, felt his breath hitch—but neither of them said anything.

Because what was there to say?

Her words were truths, ugly and cold, carved from the wreckage of everything they had left behind.

"Did you even bother to fix anything?"

She took a step forward, eyes burning, her voice raw from all the things she had swallowed down until now.

"Did you go to therapy? Did you even think for a second about how this actually affected me, or were you too busy fucking each other in every corner of the universe while I—I—was treated like a ghost?"

Gojo let out a shaky breath.

"Okay… Okay, that’s… that’s actually a good idea."

Nanami turned his head sharply, but Gojo was already looking at her, rain dripping from his lashes, his expression unreadable.

She blinked. "What is?"

This time, it was Nanami who answered. His voice was quiet, but no less firm.

"Therapy. We should… We should go to therapy."

He expected her anger. Expected the fire, the bitterness that followed.

"You think therapy will fix this?"

She laughed, but it was a hollow thing.

"No amount of talking will fix the fact that you two have torn this apart, one betrayal at a time, one “Don’t let her find out Satoru,” at a time, huh Nanami. Look at me. Therapy won’t bring me back from the way you made me feel like I don’t matter."

Nanami swallowed.

Because she wasn’t wrong.

"We didn’t mean to—" Gojo started.

"You didn’t mean to?!"

Nanami winced as her voice cracked.

"You think that’s enough? To not mean to?"

She dragged a hand over her face, and Nanami felt a strange heat build in his chest. Shame.

She was right.

She had always been right.

"Maybe I don’t want your guilt. Maybe I want you to actually show me that you care, without treating me like some side project when it’s convenient for you!"

He took a step forward. A mistake.

She stepped back, shaking her head, her walls rising between them like steel gates slamming shut.

"I’ve had enough."

There was no finality in her voice. There was no anger. Just exhaustion.

She had given them everything.

And they had taken all of it without once asking what she needed in return.

"And no amount of affection will erase the fact that you both ignored me. That you let me feel invisible—that you didn’t think about how lonely this entire situation would make me feel. You wanted me to just... accept it."

Her voice cracked on the last word, and Gojo looked like he wanted to say something, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

But he didn’t.

Because she wasn’t done.

"Yeah, therapy sounds like a good idea."

Nanami felt the weight of her words before she even finished.

"Maybe it’ll help you two figure out how to actually be. Because right now? You’re just two men who can’t even figure out how to take care of their own wife and call “smothering and ignoring” love."

The words weren’t meant to hurt.

But they did.

They stood there, soaked to the bone, and neither of them knew what to say.

Because there was nothing they could say.

And then—

She stepped forward.

Not toward him.

Toward Gojo.

And Nanami stood there, watching, as she pressed herself against him, her fingers gripping at his jacket like he was the only thing keeping her from breaking apart.

Gojo didn’t move at first.

Then his arms wrapped around her, slow, hesitant, like he was afraid.

Not of her.

Not of the storm raging inside her.

Afraid of what she had just said.

Afraid of what it meant.

"I’m scared, Satoru."

Nanami heard the words, but they weren’t meant for him.

"I never wanted to be a mother."

Her voice cracked.

"I never thought I’d be one. And now I feel like I’d die if something happened to them. I never even got to process it; I have been on flight, flight or freeze constantly. I need to breathe; my body hurts. I’m tired..."

Nanami exhaled, something twisting sharp and deep in his chest.

"And I don’t have you both."

Her fingers dug into Gojo’s jacket.

"I should have been the most supported woman in the world, but I’m not. No matter how rich or successful I am, it doesn’t matter. I wanted my husbands to know first, to care, to fix your discresions before they got worse. But instead, I feel like a fucking surrogate. Like I’m just—"

Her voice broke, the words crumbling under the weight of everything she’d been holding back. The tears came then, hot and relentless, spilling down her cheeks, getting swallowed in Gojo’s shirt, as she choked on the truth they’d been too afraid to say out loud.

She choked on the words, and Nanami thought he might break apart with her.

"Like I don’t matter to you."

Gojo’s arms tightened around her.

He froze.

Nanami did too.

Because it was true.

It had always been true.

"I don’t need your worry. I don’t need your regret."

Her voice was breaking apart, unraveling in the space between them.

"I just—"

Nanami closed his eyes.

"I just need you to see me. Not whatever version of me you think exists. Not whatever you think I should be. Me."

The rain was falling harder now.

Neither of them moved.

Nanami wanted to reach for her.

But she hadn’t come to him.

She hadn’t let herself fall apart in his arms.

Maybe she was still afraid of him. Of the way he had dragged her out of that closet. Of the way he had taken her away from Norway, against her will.

So he didn’t step forward.

He just stood there.

Watching.

And Gojo—Gojo finally moved.

He was crying, but the rain stole the proof before it could exist.

"Let’s go to couples therapy," Gojo whispered.

---

A/N: 🔥 COUPLES THERAPY ARC UNLOCKED 🔥 This fic has now reached its Enemies to Therapy to Lovers phase. 🧐 I’ll wait in the comments. 👀

Next chapter 17 (alt ending 2.8) - Invisible (Tumblr/Ao3)

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