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nanamineedstherapy · 27 days ago

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Third Wheeling Your Own Marriage

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

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: You’re a tech trillionaire, seven months pregnant, and stuck in a poly marriage with two emotionally stunted sorcerers—one of whom bakes stress mochi and the other files legal threats like love letters. You just wanted a family. What you got instead was Vogue, trauma-induced threesomes, a raccoon with Dior contracts, and men who learn about perineal tearing at 2 AM. A/N: ✨ You ever wanted to be pregnant with twins after a hysterectomy while also dodging Anna Wintour, managing a trillion-dollar empire, and navigating your husbands’ emotional affair with each other? Yeah, me neither. But the story wanted it. Expect chaotic slow burns, serious emotional reparations, hyper-specific domestic rituals, unfiltered girl group chats, sexy but sad kitchen scenes, and Keji the butler who probably has an MI6 file. Thank you for reading. Please scream in the comments like you're being emotionally waterboarded by Nanami’s voice and Gojo’s TikTok crimes.Tags: Soft!Gojo, DILF!Nanami, Crack Treated Seriously, Found Family But They're The Ones Who Need Finding, Soft Horror, Late-Stage Capitalism Wives, Trillionaire Wife AU, Special Grade Parenting Simulator, Canon Typical Gojo Satoru Delusions, Nanami Kento is So Tired Please Let Him Rest, Post-Hysterectomy Pregnancy, Cursed Pregnancy (Literally), Feral Albino Raccoon Content, Vogue Feature, Fashion as Warfare, Stress Baking, Baby Monitor Angst, Domestic Violence (Emotional, Not Physical).

Previous Chapter 21 (alt ending 2.12) - What the Living Do - Part 2 - (Tumblr/Ao3)

Chapter 22 (alt ending 2.13) - Things Broken Are Still Yours - Part 1

Threatening Anna Wintour (Mixed POVs)

Vogue Tokyo, penthouse suite.

It smelled like eucalyptus, high-budget anxiety, and the ghost of someone who wore Tom Ford Noir de Noir in the elevator but didn’t survive the meeting.

Anna Wintour didn’t come to people. But she’d come to you.

They’d transported you like a biohazard asset—elegantly. Not a wheelchair. That would photograph poorly if someone breached security. You were reclined in a Scandinavian birthing lounger, the kind designed for rich Northern European women who wanted to feel everything and regret it later.

You were seven months pregnant. And nothing about your body felt yours anymore.

Anna didn’t look at you. Not at first.

She greeted Gojo Satoru like he was a charismatic cult leader meeting a failed actor who still believed in him.

Hugged Nanami Kento with one arm and no warmth—like one might greet a lawyer they’d once lost a case to.

Then she sat opposite you in that ridiculous Eero Aarnio-inspired chair—white, sculptural, and deeply unserious—her sunglasses still on, and began the polite version of We own the narrative now.

Nanami stood behind you in soft Loro Piana—a Toxic Hunter green pullover, black slacks, and leather-soled house loafers that whispered wealth. One hand rested on your chair. The other in his pocket—calm, but not idle. He was a quiet cabin in an oncoming storm. Everything about him screamed, I’m not the villain… but I’m also not here to save you.

You wore a matte black floor-length dress—long sleeves, no shape. A silent fuck-you to the maternity-core fantasy they wanted to plaster across headlines.

Gojo sat on the frog-meets-chanel-shaped chair beside you, in black Zegna pants and an Electric Sapphire Brunello hoodie that probably cost more than a Tokyo apartment. His hand rested lightly against your thigh. No jokes. No idiocy. Stillness, like he was waiting for someone to earn his violence.

Anna noticed. Of course she did. She noticed everything.

“I’m only here,” she said, crossing her legs like this was her suite and not yours, “because the investor asked. He’s expressed very specific interest in your company’s direction. And in you.”

You blinked. Once. It tracked. The same egotistical ghost your CHRO had been dodging for weeks.

This wasn’t about interest. This was power. He’d asked. The kind of ask that came with stock manipulation, press suppression, and enough shadow influence to derail stealth mergers. You hadn’t met him. You hadn’t spoken.

When he tried bypassing your CHRO, Nanami had declined the meeting six times.

Gojo had declined it seven. And threatened legal obliteration.

He’d suggested this to your CHRO. Just one sit-down. One Vogue feature. One moment of softness. No war stories. No origin trauma. Just… you.

Nanami leaned in, voice even, “Who is it?”

Anna smiled faintly. “He’s anonymous. Which is why he’s powerful. But he’s not the problem.”

Gojo looked up. Still as a blade. “Then what is?”

Anna looked at you. For the first time. Like you were both capital and contagion. “You are,” she said. “You’re the story. You disappeared mid-IPO. Rejected venture capital. Kept your life private for years. And now—this.”

Her eyes flicked to your stomach, but only for a second.

You didn’t flinch. “I’m not a phoenix. I don’t rise. I crawl.” Like Lucifer—and I bite when touched—was the part you omitted from speaking aloud.

Anna’s lips tilted. She liked that. “Your husband told me that if we frame you as unstable, he’ll make Vogue disappear.”

Gojo perked up. “He meant that literally, by the way.”

She didn’t laugh. “He also said if we imply she’s softened—he’ll leak many celebrities homes’ raw footage.”

Nanami’s hand flexed on the chair. “And if you mention this pregnancy—”

“You’ll ‘regret it.’ Yes.” She continued, sighing. “Your legal team is relentless. And correct.”

She wasn’t wrong. Between your CHRO and Higuruma, Vogue Tokyo would be litigated into a cautionary tale. Especially in Asia, where Vogue was desperate to be taken seriously. Japan had resisted them. Only India and Korea gave them partial legitimacy.

You didn’t want this. You’d said so. Clearly. Interviews at home were something you’d avoided like the bubonic plague before.

Gojo touched your hand. His palm was warm. Too warm.

You looked at him. “You’re feverish.”

He didn’t answer. Just smiled—too many teeth. Like if he blinked, he’d bleed.

Anna broke the silence. “We’ll spin it properly. But you need to fly in after a week of the interview air date. For one conversation with him. One hour. The investor has made it clear he wants it in person.”

“No,” Gojo snapped immediately.

Nanami was already shaking his head.

Your hand tightened around Gojo’s as you took a measured exhale; your ribs hurt. “I can’t fly. I’m high-risk.”

“We’ll charter the top floor of St. Teresa’s. ICU on standby. Gyno from Zurich. Midwives from Seoul. We’ve already pulled schedules.”

Nanami’s voice was low, conversational. “You’re pushing too hard and in the wrong direction. Besides, she requires specific kinds of specialists to treat her, not anything remotely related to hippie-core. You simply can’t bribe a uterus to behave.”

Anna took off her sunglasses, a sign of trust from a woman as guarded about her intentions as her. “We never said your team couldn’t accompany her. However, your wife is worth trillions. Tech, patents, AI, blockchain logistics, cross-cultural branding, medical gaming. She’s half-myth, half-corporate witch. Do you know what the investor said to me?”

You didn’t move. “What?”

“That if she walked into his boardroom, the entire stock exchange of at least seventeen nations with ultimate deterrents would follow.”

Silence. Dense. Even Takahashi, curled at your feet with a hot water bottle strapped to his belly like he too had pregnancy cramps, stilled. You kept stroking his head. For you, not him.

What did he mean by “nations with ultimate deterrents”?

Not superpowers—too broad. Not G20—too sterile. Deterrent. A boardroom euphemism, polished smooth for recording devices. But in this world, only one deterrent moves markets without saying its name.

Nuclear states.

The investor hadn’t misspoken; he’d done his research.

He’d chosen the phrase like a man laying down a card face-up, watching who flinched. Seventeen stock exchanges, each tied to a silent arsenal. And his wife was the spark that could make them follow.

Anna knew. Of course she knew. That’s why she’d said it.

Gojo’s grip tightened on your hand. Not at the threat. At the gall.

He had clocked it in, then spoke finally. “You don’t know what she’s carrying.”

His kids could alone level nations even if they weren’t strong enough yet, but Gojo knew where they would be with proper training.

It wasn’t a warning. It wasn’t even about the twins.

A distraction. They knew twins were a footnote. The real payload was the implication that she—that you—could wield nations like a currency. And Anna Wintour’s little interview? Just the actual footnote.

Anna smiled. “No. I don’t. But I suspect.”

She didn’t confirm. Just raised her wine.

Then, a folder, tapped against the table. “We run the piece next week. After the interview. The investor will be watching. So will others. If you decline—Vogue withdraws. International perception matters.”

Gojo’s grip on your hand turned bone-white.

Anna stood.

As she passed, she murmured, “You’ll be styled in obsidian mesh and digital lace. The throne’s already on set.”

Gojo stood slowly. Eyes on her back. “If she breathes near her—”

“She won’t,” Nanami said, already moving to your side. “But the investor already is.”

You were going to be eight months pregnant and airborne—against medical advice, against common sense, against the wishes of two special-grade men whose capacity for mercy shortened the more they loved you.

---

It was raining, not dramatically—just enough to make the city blur. The sort of evening where car lights smudged against windows, and even skyscrapers seemed quieter than usual. Somewhere in one of the penthouses Gojo had bought on impulse but now called home, the kind with smart glass and Scandinavian furniture you pretended to like, two men sat on a couch they’d once ruined during a particularly aggressive argument. One had removed his sunglasses. The other hadn’t taken off his shoes. Both were watching you on the baby monitor.

You were asleep, curled around a pregnancy body pillow that Gojo had dubbed “Side Piece #3,” one hand resting protectively over the rise of your belly. Even your breathing had started to sound different.

Gojo’s thumb hovered over the screen. “She sighed in her sleep again.”

Nanami didn’t look. “Was it that sigh again?”

Gojo cracked half a smile. “Yeah.”

Another silence. Not the comfortable kind. The heavy, scraping kind.

Gojo shifted, knuckles resting against his jaw. “I read the whole group chat again.”

Nanami’s brow twitched.

“All of it.”

“Of course you did.”

Gojo’s voice dropped. “She didn’t reply to a single message.”

“No. She didn’t.”

“She was gone. Three months pregnant and gone. And we didn’t even know.”

Nanami nodded slowly, jaw tight.

There it was. Finally. The shame.

The silence sat longer this time, like a ghost refusing to be exorcised. You were right: they had emotionally cheated. You were there, in the house, in their bed. And somehow, they’d only had eyes for each other—twin suns orbiting a shared trauma neither could name aloud. Suguru had been dead for years, but after that mission, the echoes had come back louder.

Gojo had barely come home after the Parade of the Hundred Demons. Nanami knew why. He’d simply let the man into his bed. Let him bleed. Let him stay.

Nanami finally spoke. “She was there. We weren’t.”

Gojo swallowed. “She was wearing my hoodie. I didn’t even look at her. Just walked past. Like she wasn’t—”

“You were grieving.”

“So were you.”

“We grieved with each other,” Nanami said softly. “When we should have grieved with her.”

Gojo’s throat worked. “Do you think we ever made her feel like a prop? Like the soft thing we came home to when we needed comfort?”

“She was already CEO when we met her,” Nanami said. “She was never the soft thing.”

Gojo laughed. It wasn’t happy. “She cried over melted ice cream last week. I had to bribe a 24-hour store to make a delivery.”

“She said my name in her sleep last night.”

“She said mine two days ago.”

They looked at each other.

“Do you think she has a favorite?” Gojo thought aloud.

“If you ask her,” Nanami murmured, “you’ll die.”

Gojo leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, as if that could hold him up. “Kento, I keep thinking about that picture.”

Nanami frowned. “What picture?”

“From week one,” Gojo said. “You took that blurry one of her asleep with her hand on the bump. I keep going back to it. That’s when it started. The forgetting.”

Nanami closed his eyes. “You’re wrong. It started before that. We just didn’t see it.”

They sat in it for a long time—the rot they’d let spread through the foundation. What started as space turned to absence. What started as unspoken grief became willful blindness. You had carried their children alone for months while they built a shrine of guilt around each other.

“I miss flirting with you,” Gojo said suddenly.

Nanami looked at him, trying to understand what he meant.

“Proper flirting. Like when we’d argue over who gets to take her out on Fridays and then kiss behind her back.”

“She always knew.”

Gojo smirked. “Of course. She tracked our locations for sport.”

A flicker of something lighter passed between them.

“You think she still thinks about leaving?”

“She does, but she won’t say it out loud.”

Gojo exhaled. “We deserve it.”

Nanami looked away. “She told Shoko if we did it again, she’s walking. And taking the raccoon.”

“Not Takahashi!”

Nanami gave a rare half-smile. “You should start packing.”

A door creaked. They both froze.

You stepped into view, barefoot. Dressed in one of Nanami’s old button-downs and Gojo’s oversized silk robe, your belly leading before you like a slow tide. The silk clung to your hips, sheer in the hallway light, glistening faintly with sweat. Gojo looked like he’d seen God, and she was angry.

“Can one of you get me ice cream?” you asked, stifling a yawn.

Gojo shot up, halfway into a sprint. “I’ll get it—”

“No.” Your voice was soft but anchored. Not brittle. Not hormonal. Just firm. And exhausted.

You walked in and lowered yourself between them on the couch with a maternal grunt. They parted for you like you were some kind of holy disturbance, a tsunami who sometimes wore a sundress. Nanami steadied you as you shifted, his hand gentle on your elbow. Gojo placed a cushion behind your back without being told.

You sighed. “I want to talk.”

Nanami stopped breathing.

You let your head fall back against the couch. The strain on your face had been carefully concealed for weeks now, but tonight you didn’t have the energy to wear grace like a mask. Not after the Braxton Hicks contractions earlier. Not after the quiet, the kind that felt like goodbye before anything was gone. You weren’t stupid; you knew there was a clear chance of you not making it out of the delivery room, so you did what you thought was right.

“I never had a problem with you two loving each other,” you began, voice low. No accusations. Just the kind of sadness that settles when anger has long since burnt itself out. “But I’m not a side quest. You can’t forget me just because the main plot hurts.”

Gojo opened his mouth.

“No interruptions.” You weren’t harsh. Just done performing softness for men who could weaponize it.

Nanami’s hand found yours. You let him hold it. His fingers were cold.

“I don’t know what went wrong with you two,” you said, eyes closed. “I don’t even want the full story anymore. But I’ve decided to forgive you both. This time.”

Gojo leaned forward slightly, his knuckles white against his thighs. Nanami had stopped blinking.

“But if it happens again,” you said. “I walk. No theatrics. No beatdowns. No chasing me across countries. No trying to get custody of Takahashi or the twins.” That was in no particular order but Takahashi too was in therapy because of you. “Just a clean, well-lit courtroom. And a legal notice. Understood?”

They nodded. Like men before a firing squad.

“And you’re both still going to jail,” you added.

Gojo blinked. “Like actual—”

“You hurt people,” you said. “My people. My staff. They did nothing wrong but follow my instructions. I already filed the report with Higuruma. He’s reviewing sentencing options.”

Nanami didn’t speak. His hand tightened around yours.

Gojo looked down like he was trying not to get hard.

“That being said,” you exhaled, massaging your belly, “we hope to shorten it with more community service, hefty fines, public statements, etc. But I’m not taking liability for either of you; I have my children to think of now.”

They didn’t argue. Gojo even looked weirdly aroused.

And then you finished, casually, “Now someone please rub my feet.”

Nanami was on the floor in seconds, pulling your ankle into his lap. Gojo pressed a kiss to your temple as if it might buy him time. You didn’t stop him. But you didn’t lean in, either.

“You’re glowing,” he whispered.

“I’m sweaty,” you replied.

“I like it.”

Nanami rolled his eyes. “You would.”

But the words didn’t have teeth. Not now.

Not when Gojo was watching Nanami like he was seventeen again, bruised and brilliant, a private heartbreak in a boy with starched cuffs. Not when Nanami didn’t flinch under the gaze. Not when your pregnancy had rewired the gravitational laws in the room—and they were both finally aware they orbited you, not each other.

You felt it. That tension. That fear. The emotional minefield they hadn’t crossed in months. Not since they found out you had left.

And yet.

You looked at them. Tired. Full. Knowing. “I never minded when you kissed him,” you said softly.

Nanami’s thumb stilled on your ankle. Gojo looked at you, unsure.

“But I do mind being forgotten.”

You leaned back, gave them space to absorb it.

Gojo reached out first. Not to you. To Nanami. His hand hovered a second—then cupped Nanami’s jaw, thumb brushing across the bristle of stubble like muscle memory.

Nanami didn’t flinch. He just met Gojo’s eyes. And didn’t look away.

The kiss was slow. Chaste. Familiar. Like a song sung half-asleep, a language they hadn’t used in months.

You watched them and smiled. Hormones singing. Heart heavy and full, with your hand on your stomach, the twins rolling restlessly beneath your palm.

Then your hormones took over.

“Okay, now kiss me,” you demanded.

They didn’t hesitate.

Gojo kissed you first, full of heat and guilt and aching want. Nanami kissed your neck, reverent and slow. Hands under the shirt, over your hips, under your belly, like he was trying to memorize the geography of what his betrayal almost cost.

Your fingers tangled in white hair and blond curls, anchoring them both to the present.

Then—

Gojo’s hand dipped low.

Nanami’s mouth traced your collarbone.

Both froze.

“Wait—” Gojo pulled back, breath hitching.

“We can’t—” Nanami’s hand stilled on your thigh.

You groaned. “I’m not going to break.”

Nanami backed off like a chastised schoolboy. “It’s not about that.”

“Yeah,” Gojo whispered, face half-buried in your shoulder. “We’re… trying to be better.”

“Cowards.”

“Responsible cowards,” Gojo corrected.

Nanami resumed rubbing your feet. Gojo fetched the damn ice cream. The night softened.

And maybe it wasn’t everything.

But maybe—for now—it was enough.

And maybe that was okay.

For now.

---

Penthouse’s Rooftop Garden

The next week, Nanami Kento, recently reinstated at what Vogue’s fact-checkers were still calling a private school for gifted children, sat by the glass railings of their Tokyo penthouse’s rooftop garden, sleeves rolled to the forearms. One hand gripped the lacquered handle of a faux katana—merch from a feudal-Japan RPG that your company had released years ago. It was the very game he had adored for years, the one he had been searching for at the gaming convention the day he first laid eyes on you, and, because of him, so had Gojo. Now, the katana rested under the table, mostly forgotten, as the woman on the call droned on, giving him a migraine.

Anna Wintour, live on screen, sipped something white-gold and expensive in a room that looked like it had air conditioning just for the scent of influence.

You were reclined nearby on the velveteen chaise Gojo had dragged out for you earlier, Takahashi draped dramatically over your belly like a sentient handbag. The silk Oh-my-God-Officer-what-do-you-mean-my-husband-is-dead robe sloped off one shoulder. Pregnancy had added gravity to your body and an unnatural calm to your eyes. You looked like a Bond villain with an MBA and a third-trimester spine problem, like you’d hacked capitalism from the inside, and now you were quietly bleeding under it.

Gojo was stress baking mochi, covered in flour, wearing an apron that said, “UNSUBMISSIVE. UNBOTHERED. UNHOLY.”

Anna spoke first. Her tone was as smooth as her sunglasses were sharp. “I want to clarify something upfront. This feature is a strategic rehabilitation piece. Not an exposé. That said, public curiosity is high. Understandably.”

Nanami leaned back, the movement deliberate, rolling his shoulders just enough to stretch the fabric of his tailored shirt across his chest. He adjusted his glasses with one hand—slow, like he knew she was watching—the other still resting on the katana under the table. “She’s on bed rest and carrying twins. She’s also medicated for pain, uncomfortable, and under enough scrutiny to make a lesser person collapse.” A pause, just long enough to let the threat linger. “If your article so much as implies she fabricated this pregnancy, violated her feminist values, or traded innovation for domesticity, I’ll ensure Vogue's reputation takes the fall.”

Anna smiled like she’d just been insulted in an exotic dialect. A flicker of amusement, then control. “She told The Verge four years ago she’d never have children. She referenced a hysterectomy.”

“She wasn’t lying.”

A measured pause. Even Gojo, rustling behind the outdoor island, stilled.

Anna's smile tightened. “So it’s true.”

You stared at Nanami. He didn’t meet your gaze, but you knew he felt it: Don’t confirm we’re sorcerers to Anna Wintour. Not even by omission.

Nanami inhaled, deep and deliberate, like he was calculating oxygen’s morality. His thumb traced the edge of his glasses—a calculated distraction. “She experienced severe medical trauma. That’s not public property.”

Anna gave a slight nod. “I agree. But Vogue isn’t the Daily Mail. We don’t chase gossip—we follow narrative arcs. And right now, your wife’s storyline is complicated. Disappearing before your... incident at her HQ, halting her IPO, rejecting activist investors, and refusing to explain the foundation shifts such as two new CEOs. It all adds up.”

Gojo peeked, dusted in rice flour like a cursed pastry. “Tell her—”

“Go back to your mochi.”

He huffed and retreated. The mixing bowl was suspiciously the size of a small basin.

Nanami’s voice returned, low and smooth, like a blade sliding back into its sheath. “What’s the real aim of this feature?”

Anna didn’t miss a beat. “There’s a new investor involved; they asked us to take this up—our angle is redemption through disruption. Your wife’s silence has created a vacuum. We’ll shape it. Focus on her achievements. The tech empire. The pregnancy struggles. The speculation about paternity. The... affiliations.”

Nanami’s tone dropped, but his posture stayed relaxed, one arm draped over the back of his chair like he owned the frame. “If you bring up yakuza or military clearance, I’ll litigate.”

Anna waved one hand. “Please. You’re not ex-military. And your husband isn’t just a teacher.”

You blinked. Nanami stilled—but only for a second. Then he smirked, slow and knowing, like he’d been waiting for this. “How’d you find out?”

Anna remained unbothered, “Because your wife once locked herself in a marble guest bathroom at the Cannes afterparty while drunk and laughing, and your husband levitated the broken door off its hinges when other celebrities tried helping. The mirror caught it.” She rested her chin on her fingers, barely a movement, before delivering the final blow. “Unpublished. For now.”

You groaned. “It was my dress. And they were insufferable.”

Anna smiled faintly. “We didn’t publish it. Yet. I consider that a favor.”

“Blackmail,” Nanami corrected, rolling the word off his tongue like a sip of expensive whiskey.

“Semantics.”

Then, pivoting with surgical precision, she continued, “Fine. Vogue will soften the pregnancy coverage. But we want Gojo Satoru’s first exclusive—shirtless and singing on a white piano—for a hybrid editorial-music video ad for Calvin Klein.”

Nanami didn’t blink. “Done.”

Anna’s brow lifted. “That was fast.”

“You were going to ask anyway.”

“Touché.” She tilted her glass. “And Kento—may I call you Kento?”

“No.”

She smiled, barely. “Well, you’ll be in the video too. Tailored suit. Stoic seduction. Women adore you. My assistant has a shrine.”

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose, but there was no real irritation—just the faintest curl of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “God help us.”

“I already did,” Anna replied. “We’ll send a pre-list of questions. You’ll find them balanced: less fertility, more innovation. More her. It’s about time she was seen for what she built.”

Nanami’s eyes flicked towards you, just for a split second—a silent check-in. You gave a small nod. He caught it, like always.

“Include her tech patents,” he said. “The NFT architecture. Seoul’s gaming rehab center. The scholarships for women in STEM. And the wildlife conservation grants.”

Anna observed him. “Are you in PR... or just married to her?”

“Yes,” he said simply, the word dripping with smug finality.

You smiled, eyes lidded. Gojo returned, bowl in hand, and without hesitation dropped his head onto your chest, face first into cleavage like a man breathing his last. You ran a hand through his hair.

Anna didn’t comment. Only noted, “She’ll be styled by Olivier Rousteing. The theme is Queen of Code. There will be a throne.”

You picked up a mochi and lobbed it at Nanami. He didn’t flinch. His ratio blades sliced it mid-air, neatly plating it beside him, all off-camera.

“My wife requests Iris van Herpen,” he said calmly.

Anna’s eyes flicked upward. “She can have both. Fashion is war. I enjoy battle.”

Gojo, from your chest, mumbled, “Do I get a throne?”

Anna smiled without showing teeth. “We’ll see.”

An hour later, Nanami had more beef with Anna.

Anna sat in a chair that cost more than a suburban divorce settlement, her posture flawless, her gaze unreadable. The air between them was charged, still—like the moment before a lightning strike.

Nanami exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders back just enough to make his shirt strain at the seams. His voice was low, deliberate, a velvet-wrapped threat. “Anna. We agreed. No invasive questions about the pregnancy. No speculative eugenics. No trauma exploitation. Not even subtext.”

Anna flipped through a spread, unfazed. “Kento, breathe. Just send over the revision request, and we'll talk.”

Nanami’s fingers drummed once against the table—a controlled show of impatience. “If you frame her as unstable, I will frame your investors for insider trading.”

Anna didn’t blink. “Possessive for a polycule.”

Nanami smirked, slow and knowing, like he’d already won. “I’m a husband. Possession is romantic when it’s honest.”

She sipped her drink, watching him over the rim. “Fine. We’ll pivot. Patents. Valuation. The cyber fund. But.”

“But?” Nanami echoed, tilting his head just so—a challenge, an invitation.

“I want something entertaining.”

“No.”

A heavy silence.

Anna looked up, her gaze sharpening. “I know you're not teachers. I know about the school.”

Nanami’s pulse flickered once—just enough to betray surprise, not enough to concede.

“And you haven’t published it… why?”

Anna smiled like a glacier—slow and inevitable. “Because your wife is the best narrative I’ve seen in decades. And I don’t ruin great stories, Kento. I style them.”

Gojo clapped, his grin wide and wicked as he materialized behind Nanami, draping himself over the back of his chair like a mischievous shadow. “See? She’s a strong woman with god-tier instincts!” His voice was bright, teasing, but his fingers curled possessively into Nanami’s shoulder—a silent claim.

Anna raised her glass, her smile razor-thin. “And now she’s a Vogue cover. And you—Satoru—are my Bi Kanye.”

Nanami closed his eyes, his jaw tightening—the only sign of his exasperation. “I need a drink.”

Gojo was already pouring, his movements fluid, effortless, like he’d been waiting for this moment. He leaned in, pressing the glass into Nanami’s hand with a flourish, his lips brushing the shell of his ear as he whispered, “Relax, Kento. You’re way hotter when you’re not scowling.”

Nanami didn’t dignify that with a response, but the corner of his mouth twitched—just once.

---

The next day, the kitchen smelled like sugar and heat.

You were elbow-deep in almond paste, condensed milk, and chopped cashews—hair tied back with one of Gojo’s discarded blindfolds, Nanami’s white tee stretched over your third-trimester belly like it was one wrong inhale away from giving up. Your back ached. Your ankles were cursing your lineage. But your mind—surprisingly—was calm.

Nanami stood behind you. Not nearby. Not adjacent.

On you.

Like a perfectly tailored cashmere trench coat designed by a pervert with a domesticity kink.

His hands bracketed your hips with a steadiness that had nothing to do with innocence—thumbs tracing small, absent-minded circles along the slopes of your belly. His chin rested in the curve of your neck like it had always been meant to live there. Like he’d bought property and filed taxes.

“I told you not to stand so close,” you muttered, struggling to stir the mixture again.

“You told me not to distract you,” he said, voice close and deep. “I’ve been still for ten minutes.”

“You’re breathing on my neck.”

“I love your neck.”

You huffed. “Kento. The marzipan is melting.”

He kissed your shoulder like it was a confession, soft and reverent. Like he’d overheard you once say you liked being touched while cooking and filed it under “How to Win Her in Three Acts.”

“I’ll replace the marzipan. And the chef. And the kitchen, if necessary.”

Behind you, the staff tensed, pretending to be invisible, as if they didn’t exist at all. You didn’t turn to look; you could feel their atoms nervously rearranging.

“Kento,” you warned, voice low and amused, sharp enough that only he could hear, “if you start grinding on my ass or grope my boobs again while I’m pouring hot caramelized sugar, I will tip it directly into your bougie coffee grinder.”

“You won’t,” he murmured and pressed a kiss just beneath your ear. “You’re too invested in the chemical balance of the sweet.”

God, he still remembered. Still knew you. Where to touch. When to press. How to lift.

“…Ugh. You're lucky you’re right.”

His chuckle was indecent, especially coming from someone with his hair disheveled and glasses tossed somewhere near the milk powder tin. His Slipknot tee clung to him like sin. His hands slid under your belly and lifted—just enough to ease the weight off your back. Your knees nearly buckled from the sheer relief of it. You tried to focus, but his body heat….. and goddamn spine pain relief.

You might have moaned. Accidentally. If not for the presence of the staff, who looked two seconds from asking the gods for a transfer.

"You're unfair like this. Kono karada, kanpeki da," he murmured in half-Japanese, voice low and worshipful. (This body… it’s perfect.)

You leaned back into him, lazy. “Flattery won’t get you more sweets.”

“I wasn’t aiming for that.” He nipped your shoulder. “Though I wouldn’t say no to a taste.”

His hand slid under your shirt—where you’d stopped wearing a bra at home out of protest and biology.

He’d asked for these sweets—nostalgia, maybe. Or a way to touch you without Gojo taking the opportunity from him. Maybe it was that. Or maybe Nanami just missed you. The ‘you’ that wasn’t hidden behind a swollen belly and swollen feet. The ‘you’ that could still hold him back. The ‘you’ he’d been trying to make up lost time with—because time didn’t wait, and neither did you. Also, because even if just for today, Gojo’s natural musk made you gag while Nanami’s soothed, and he wanted to take advantage of that.

You were about to elbow him. (Gently, maybe)—when the kitchen door slammed open like a shōjo anime villain’s entrance cue.

“GUESS WHO GOT SENT A KITCHEN APPLIANCE,” Gojo bellowed, bursting in like he’d been ejected from a game show hosted by Satan. “AND THREE DIFFERENT PREGNANCY BRAND DEALS, INCLUDING A SKINCARE KIT THAT SMELLS LIKE MELON-CUCUMBER BUT FEELS LIKE FOREPLAY.”

He spun in place, the camera trained exclusively on himself.

“VLOG UPDATE: My pregnant gamer wife is groping my emotionally constipated husband again while I slave away for content!”

In his other hand? A gleaming white and gold monstrosity.

You froze.

Nanami froze.

The staff froze.

It looked like a toilet seat. A slow-close culinary nightmare. Possibly cursed.

“It’s a slow cooker-slash-baby bottle sterilizer. Multi-use. Passive income, baby!”

“Shut up. I told you not to bring a camera into the kitchen.” Nanami hissed, still wrapped around you like a disgruntled orange housecat.

“We don’t need toilet money!” You yelled, horrified.

“You can’t tell me what to do in MY house,” Gojo grinned, flipping the camera toward the slow cooker. “This looks like something Utahime would cook in.”

Nobody, literally nobody, knew who Utahime was except Nanami. And even he didn’t know why Gojo had been beefing with her since high school.

“GOJO,” you snapped, “I’m literally making food. What part of this feels sanitary to you?!”

“You’re glowing.” He zoomed in on your face. “Pregnancy suits you. Soft demon queen energy. Nanamin, look at her; don’t you wanna cry?”

“I cry because of you often, but not today.”

Gojo wheezed. Almost dropped the camera.

You raised the tray of sweets. “If you don’t leave, I will make you eat the sugarless batch I ruined.”

Gojo gasped. “That’s an act of war.”

“Then declare war, coward.”

Nanami’s grip didn’t budge. “She’s not bluffing, Satoru.”

“TRAITOR!” Gojo shrieked. “You heard it here, folks! My husband has betrayed me! My wife is threatened by my glow-up!”

“You stole my essence toner, Satoru!”

“Technically, you said you didn’t like the scent!”

“THAT DOESN’T MEAN IT’S YOURS.”

The camera stuck to Gojo’s chest probably caught everything: the PR box. The slow cooker that looked like a glorified bidet. You, glowing with rage and glucose. Nanami, still somehow hot despite being halfway to homicide.

“GET. IT. OUT,” you hissed, whisk in hand like a weapon.

“Kore wa slow cooker to yobenai. Kusottare,” Nanami muttered darkly, gripping your waist harder like only he was allowed to wreck your blood pressure. (You can’t call this a slow cooker. Goddamn piece of shit.)

He only cursed in Japanese when genuinely pissed.

Which was hot.

Unfortunately.

Gojo gasped. “Did he just call me stupid?!”

You leaned your weight into Nanami’s hold, wiped flour off your nose, and patted your belly with a flour-covered hand. “No, baby. He called you a piece of shit.”

Meanwhile, online:

@TojisUnwashedTesticles: The way you can HEAR the sexual tension in every Nanami insult is my Roman Empire.

@IhateMonkeys: Why Gojo got a toilet-seat-looking slow cooker. Who approved this collab?

@ExorcistMommyUtahime: Obsessed with the fact that we still don’t know what their jobs are. He’s either a war criminal or a Sagittarius.

@SugurusGhostBabyDaddy: Nanami saying “kusottare” on live was more erotic than my first kiss.

@meGAYmi: Not Nanami’s voice sending me into ovulation. Who’s the real influencer here?

@GetouComeBackHome: Gojo’s still my man, but I would commit war crimes for their wife. Real recognizes real.

@TojisCarSeat: Bro, wtf was that toilet seat thing? Also, the soft moan at 3:12 was illegal.

@NanamisBallSweat: DID Y’ALL HEAR THE OTHER TWO YELLING IN DIFFERENT LANGUAGES LMAO I NEED THEM TO ADOPT ME!

@SukunasButtholeMoss: I just KNOW the wife’s cooking hits harder than generational trauma. Also, pls drop the skincare link.

Group Chat: Wife Support Network 💅

(Inc: You, Shoko, Maya, CHRO)

Perpetually Horny: He did the thing.

Cuntiest Bitch Alive: Define “the thing.”

Perpetually Horny: He stood behind me while I was cooking, hand on my hip, breathing on my neck, and said, “careful with the knife,” like he was narrating a crime documentary.

Postmortem Baddie: Oh no.

HR Baddie: Girl, you’re in danger. and also pregnant. and also a slut. I respect you, bbgirl.

---

In the nights, your husbands had daily crises.

Group Chat: Dad Crimes 💀 (Anon)

Daddy: Okay. Real talk. I just read seven articles on perineal tearing.

Father Time: …Why?

Daddy: Because Google is a curse, and I hate myself.

Father Time: Hmm.

Daddy: They use words like “second-degree” and “episiotomy” like it’s NBD.

Father Time: I know.

Daddy: Do you?? Because I just learned the pelvic floor can detach—

Father Time: Satoru, breathe.

Daddy: I AM. BUT SHE WON’T BE.

Father Time: …I read about hemorrhage risks.

Daddy: Oh god.

Father Time: 500ml is considered “normal” blood loss.

Daddy: That’s a wine bottle.

Father Time: Yes.

Daddy: …Do you need a hug?

Father Time: Desperately.

Daddy: What if she hates us after? Like, hormonally?

Father Time: She already hates us.

Daddy: Fair. But what if it’s biological hate?

Father Time: Then we’ll deserve it.

Daddy: …What if the babies are ugly?

Father Time: Statistically unlikely, you are in the mix.

Daddy: But what if—

Father Time: Then we’ll lie.

Daddy: …I looked up “husband stitches.”

Father Time: Jesus.

Daddy: I need bleach for all my six eyes.

Father Time: Bleach isn’t strong enough.

Daddy: …We’re gonna fuck this up, huh?

Father Time: Absolutely.

Daddy: But we’ll try not to?

Father Time: Every day.

Daddy: …Still kinda wanna put my head between her thighs and scream.

Father Time: …Same.

Daddy: KENTO—

Father Time: IT’S A STRESS RESPONSE.

(Silence for 3 minutes.)

Father Time: …We should sleep.

Daddy: Yeah.

Father Time: …She’s gonna be okay.

Daddy: Yeah.

Father Time: …We’re gonna be okay.

Daddy: …Yeah.

(Seen 2:17 AM.)

---

Originally intended as a pre-check for the official Vogue feature. No one expected it to be this… unhinged.

Excerpt from ELITE SPACES:

Inside the Homes of Asia’s Top One Percent

Interview with Keji, Private Butler to the Mysterious Tech Trillionaire CEO and Her Infamous Husbands.

Author: [Redacted]

Published: [Also Redacted, Sorry]

Name: Keji

Position: Executive Domestic Operations Coordinator (EDOC)

Note: Yes, it does sound like idiocy. No, that is not a coincidence.

Background: Swiss-born. Paris-educated. Former sommelier. Allegedly descended from a Russian assassin who once seduced a queen. Once seen in the background of a leaked MI6 photo with a sword cane and a monocle. May or may not have ghostwritten an erotic thriller under a pen name. Refuses to comment on whether he's killed someone with a dessert fork. Keeps bees. Wears gloves indoors. No known last name.

Q: So, Mr. Keji, how would you describe the household dynamic?

He inhaled slowly, like he was about to lie in court, sipped something that smelled like fermented moss.

Keji: Imagine if Versailles was rebuilt inside a startup’s panic room, then placed in the care of two emotionally unstable Greek deities and one visibly exhausted, visibly pregnant tech CEO who once told Jeff Bezos to “shut up before I code your face off the planet.” That is this household.

We operate on a rotating military-meets-baking-show schedule. Each of her cravings triggers a protocol.

‘Operation Mango Sorbet’ means no one sleeps until the croquembouche at 2 AM is conquered. ‘Emergency Tiramisu’ means Nanami-san cried watching a raccoon video, and now we’re flying in mascarpone from Italy. ‘Code Coconut Milk’ means I have approximately seven minutes to physically remove Gojo-san from the slow cooker aisle in Don Quijote before he livestreams something federal.

Q: And the husbands? Gojo Satoru and Nanami Kento?

Keji’s left eye twitched like it had seen battle. Possibly an actual battle. He adjusted his gloves with quiet menace. His cufflinks gleam—gold, understated. There’s something engraved inside one of them. We don’t ask what.

Keji: Gojo-san is what happens when charisma gets radiation poisoning—what you might call in English a nuclear serotonin event, completely devoid of any concept of self-preservation. He owns 57 robes, none of which close. Once, he brought home a horse “for the vibes.” He hosts unsanctioned cooking shows in our kitchen, Unholy Bake-Off, where he once filmed me screaming about soufflé temperatures and titled it “#ButlerBreakdown.” It trended in thirteen countries and now has merch. And yet, he massages her ankles himself, without being asked, says that she doesn’t like people touching her.

Nanami-san, on the other hand, is… different. Surgical. Lethal. Picture a repressed samurai with a spreadsheet kink. He has strong opinions on napkin folds and stock investments, and he refers to almond milk as “the coward’s dairy.” He cross-references the madame’s dietary needs with biomedical journals. I once caught him reorganizing the spice rack while listening to lo-fi Debussy, sharpening knives for relaxation—or perhaps for revenge. He once dismissed a pastry chef for using vanilla essence instead of extract. I have witnessed him button her coat like a man affixing armor, and it haunts me. I envy it.

Q: What about your employer? The CEO. The wife. What is she like?

A rare pause. Then the kind of smile you give just before throwing a Molotov cocktail into Parliament, the kind that said, “I have watched this woman argue down billionaires while wearing a robe that says, ‘Your dad calls me daddy too.’”

Keji: She is elegance duct-taped to vengeance, tiptoeing through marble hallways with glitter on her cheekbone and war in her bones. Once, she coded an entire anti-fraud protocol while in the midst of a panic attack, making tech bros cry in three languages.

She is brilliant. Brutal. Terrifyingly kind. She codes as if she’s committing arson, soft-launching billion-dollar projects in pajamas. Once, she silenced an entire all-male panel with a single raised eyebrow and the phrase, “Sweetheart, your critical thinking skills are showing.”

She is effortlessly ruthless, yet her kindness feels surgical. She once tipped a barista enough to pay off his student loans.

Above all, she is tired. Carrying twins while managing a trillion-dollar empire and two emotionally unstable men is less “dream wife aesthetic” and more seasonal demonic possession.

And yes, she once tried to deep-fry a coconut because “it felt like a vibe.” We do not speak of that day.

Q: It sounds chaotic. Is it… dangerous?

He leaned forward. The air changed—subtle, but enough that our photographer stopped chewing.

Keji: I cannot confirm the existence of a panic bunker disguised as a wine cellar. Nor the armored stroller Gojo-san commissioned.

What I can say is:

Every room has a safe word.

The koi pond has a kill count.

Nanami-san once barricaded the breakfast nook because the yogurt was “emotionally compromised.”

Also, Gojo-san has a drone. He calls it his son. It lives in the chandelier.

The interviewer did not ask him to elaborate.

Q: And yet… you seem attached.

Keji: Attachment is inevitable when you live in the eye of a domestic hurricane. Fondness would be too gentle a word; we are bound—not by contract, but by proximity, consequence, and survival.

When Gojo-san is quiet, we brace for planetary events and back up the servers. When Nanami-san kneels beside her with a warm towel, we pretend not to notice his hands shake, and when he sighs, we check the news.

And when she smiles at them—just smiles—we pretend not to hear the security wards sensors hum, or when she hums while eating peaches, the air fills with the scent of victory. And sometimes—home.

This house is not built on affection; it’s built on rituals, in-jokes, and midnight grilled cheese sandwiches alongside knife block negotiations.

It is absurd. Infuriating. Sacred.

Love here is not soft; it’s tactical, armored. It’s a siege, an ecosystem, a magnetic field that bends reality around itself.

And still—they chose it. All three of them. And somehow… us, too. And people like that—people at the top? Gods? They rarely choose.

The interviewer is even more confused now.

Q: What would the public be most surprised to learn about them?

He glanced toward the distant hallway. They swear they hear Gojo cackling and a teacup shattering. Then Nanami’s voice, low and deadly: “That was Noritake. You absolute cretin.”

Keji: That they are trying.

Beyond the wealth, beyond the performance art of existing in this tax bracket—they are trying. All three of them.

Behind the absurdity, beneath the myth, there is something profoundly human.

Even if Gojo-san is currently holding the baby monitor like a microphone and singing lullabies in autotune.

Q: Final question-is this a cult?

He tilted his head like a Renaissance painting. Smiled with the calculated joy of a man who owns a vault.

Keji: That question has been forwarded to legal.

(He could answer it. He just didn’t want to.)

[END OF TRANSCRIPT]

[Note: Since its publication, this feature has been reprinted in three languages and has inspired a popular cosplay café in Harajuku. Keji has trended twice on X.com—once for rescuing a fainting pastry chef mid-scone and again for scowling during an Oscars pre-show. The baby monitor now boasts 800K followers on TikTok, while the koi pond has been verified on Instagram and even has its own NFT. And yes, the raccoon now models for Dior, too.]

---

Group Chat: Wife Support Network 💅

(Inc: You, Shoko, Maya, CHRO)

Pinned Message by HR Baddie:

💀Reminder: Maya says NO SEX during therapy.

🚨Shoko is new; do NOT corrupt her.

👩🏽‍💼I’ve already filled out the annulment forms.

They’re waiting in my Google Drive. Just say the word.

Perpetually Horny: He showed up in a wig.

Postmortem Baddie: …Why?

Perpetually Horny: Said it was to “disguise” himself. From what? Unknown. Possibly shame.

HR Baddie: There is no disguise strong enough to hide that man’s decisions.

Perpetually Horny: Then he pulled out sunglasses. Put them on. Looked me dead in the eyes and said, “You don’t know me.”

Cuntiest Bitch Alive: He’s unraveling. You’re not bonding. You’re supervising a psychotic break.

---

//Playlist

The house was too quiet when one was alone in it. It was strange.

No Gojo tripping alarms. No Takahashi scaling furniture like a cocaine-fueled raccoon elf. Just the hum of your customized HVAC system and the subtle bass line from your phone.

The place was holding its breath—not the serene quiet of peace, but the tense stillness of anticipation, like the air before a typhoon or a brewing scandal. You lay on your side in the living room, legs swaddled in soft blankets, and your belly curved like a little hill beneath your compression t-shirt, one of Gojo's old ones that carried the faint scent of vanilla protein powder and ego. Beside you sat Nanami—your moral compass, turned corporate spouse, turned war tactician—his presence a steadying force in the charged atmosphere.

His shirt was untucked.

Untucked.

A sin against his own meticulously tailored existence, the fabric rumpled where it draped over his shoulders. His hair, usually swept back with military precision, fell loose over his forehead, still damp from the shower. Clinging to him was a distinctive fragrance—a bright burst of bergamot that gave way to a subtle heart of aromatic herbs and spice, finally settling into the warm, domestic allure of rich sandalwood, accented with delicate hints of vetiver and leather.

His palm pressed firmly against the small of your back, fingers working slow, deliberate circles into the ache there.

You arched into his touch, a soft sigh escaping you.

Nanami exhaled through his nose—that familiar, long-suffering sound—but his fingers didn’t stop.

"You’re thinking too loud," you murmured.

His thumb stilled. Then, with the same precision he used to dismantle curses, he leaned down and pressed his lips to the curve of your shoulder.

"And you," he said, voice low, "are taking up too much space on the couch."

You chuckled, breathless, and he continued rubbing soothing circles on your back.

You scrolled, thumb-flicking TikToks into oblivion. The content was random—working mom hacks, edits of Gojo with audios that should have been illegal, a raccoon trying lemon for the first time (you immediately sent that to Haibara), a 45-second thirst trap of Nanami in a fitted suit set to “Need Someone Older,” even though he was younger than Gojo.

You didn’t flinch as Nanami shifted his weight on the couch, lying down behind you. He lifted your head and rested it on his bicep, while his other hand settled on your stomach—warm, gentle, and ridiculously steady.

You tilted your head and smiled at him without looking up from the screen.

He leaned in, resting his chin on top of your head.

The next video: a girl screaming, “My husband said he’s gonna ‘watch the baby’ and then fell asleep in the car with it on his chest for two hours! THAT’S NOT WATCHING, THAT’S BEING FURNITURE!!”

Nanami hummed low. “That’ll be Satoru.”

You chuckled.

“Speaking of,” he said, his voice smooth as the lighting in the ridiculous house, “once the twins are here, he'll do all the diaper changes for night feeds.”

“Both?”

“I'm not wasting energy at 3 A.M. on swaddling accidents.”

You smiled again—short, sleepy.

He continued like he’d been rehearsing it in his mind for days, polishing the worry with every repeat: “They’ll probably show early signs. With his blood and mine… I’m concerned.”

You barely looked up, thumbing past a TikTok of someone giving birth to a literal ice cube while moaning in ASMR. Nanami didn’t flinch. He was numb to internet absurdity now. That was progress.

“If they inherit a domain expansion before five,” he said, low and deliberate, “they could fracture reality. And I don’t want you to feel like they are—” He stopped, jaw working. “—not human.”

You let your head tilt against his arm—broad, warm, real—and your phone, still in hand. The silence wasn’t avoidance. It was strategy.

“They won’t be,” you said at last, your voice quiet but firm, like a verdict. “They’ll be worse. Stronger. Stranger. They’ll scare people. Maybe even us.”

That made his brow twitch.

“But they’ll be ours.” You adjusted slightly, his arm tightening instinctively. “And you’re not just a sorcerer, Kento. You’re their dad. You’re the reason they’ll know how to look someone in the eye when they apologize. The reason they’ll know when to draw the line, and when to forgive.”

He didn’t breathe, not really.

“And when they ask why they don’t fit in, why the world looks at them like a weapon someone forgot to leash, you’ll tell them their fathers rewrote the rules of jujutsu society just to make it back in time for dinner. That you both bled for their bedtime. That you both stayed. That even if the world calls them curses, this family won’t. And even if they go astray, we’ll gently course-correct them early on.”

You turned your head slightly, enough to look at him, eyes soft but unsparing. “You keep trying to say the right thing like it’s a math problem. But you don’t need to calculate love, Kento. You are the proof.”

The air shifted. His exhale was less a release, more an alignment. The fear didn’t leave. It just... made room. Found a place to settle beside you on the couch.

“I never say it right,” he admitted, voice gravel-low, a whisper carved into marble.

“I know.” You smiled and breathed him in like he was the only air left in the penthouse suite. “You don’t have to. I’m fluent in Kento.”

Your gaze went back to your phone.

Nanami hated himself even more for betraying you and taking away your smile.

This time, the TikTok was of Chef Ranveer Brar in a five-star rooftop kitchen, plating momos on hand-thrown ceramic while monsoon winds brushed against the open glass doors. You could smell the steam through the screen—chili oil glistening like lacquer, the hiss of the pan lost beneath the elegant chaos of servers speaking French-accented Hindi.

You exhaled sharply. Nanami's arm was across your belly, skin to skin, and your fingers clutched his forearm like you were holding yourself back from teleporting to Mumbai and strong-arming the chef.

You didn’t even realize you'd whispered it: “I’d let that man ruin my life for those momos.”

Nanami hummed, noncommittal. His thumb absently stroked your hip. “He’d have to get past me first.”

“Then you make me momos.”

“I’m not a five-star chef.”

“No,” you said, turning towards him. “You’re better.” You’re mine.

Nanami narrowed his eyes. “You want that?”

You nodded. “I’ve seen this momo recipe on my feed for days. And you know it isn't available on any of the delivery apps here—trust me, I checked. Japan doesn't do momos.”

He scoffed softly. “Because we have gyoza. We don't need oily flour pockets with—”

You looked up at him and gave him the look.

The puppy dog look.

The one you hadn’t used since that week he slept with Gojo.

He sighed fondly and started to rise.

You tugged his sleeve.

“Don’t go,” you said. “Yell at someone else to make it. Play the rich husband card. I want you. Not just the food.”

If Nanami Kento were a commodity, he would have devalued right there—softening, melting.

“…Fine. I’ll call the prenatal chef,” he muttered. “But I’m going to have to give feedback if it’s not authentic.”

“That’s not feedback,” you smirked. “That’s a scathing TED Talk.”

He ran his fingers through your hair, resting his chin back on your head as you both watched the screen. Now it displayed a Gojo thirst edit featuring old college footage that your PR team, under the guidance of the CHRO, had strategically leaked, accompanied by the haunting melody of "Brat."

Nanami squinted at the screen. “That’s the night he blew up a power grid that supplied three blocks while trying to cook takoyaki.”

You grinned. “Yeah. And now he’s trying to change the whole Jujutsu Society.”

Nanami nodded, deadpan. “And still can’t make rice without YouTube.”

“That’s an act, and you know it. He knows if he cooks too well, he might become the designated chef.”

Nanami chuckled lowly.

You felt the tension bleeding off his skin.

“You’re doing that thing,” you mumbled, eyes still on the screen. “Where you don’t speak, but your thoughts are screaming about Satoru.”

He exhaled. “He’s going to burn himself out.”

You tilted your head, letting it fall lightly against his chest.

“He’s not just the head of the Gojo clan now,” Nanami continued, his tone too even to be casual. “But taking over the entire Jujutsu Society? That’s war. And I don’t mean metaphorically. We’ve already gotten two assassination warnings this week.”

“He’s just pretending it’s a new video game expansion pack,” you said, lips twitching.

Nanami snorted—bless the man, that was his version of laughing. “He told me yesterday he was going to name his first decree ‘Patch 1.0: No More Stupid Elders.’ And the second one was just—’Sex for everyone except Haibara.’”

You chuckled, easing back as his hand shifted up, now tracing gentle circles into the tense arch of your waist. “He’s going to say something insane like 'Executive Order: Bring back the Meiji era and put me in a top hat.'”

Nanami muttered, “He already asked me to look into sourcing a silk cravat.”

A pause. Then both of you exhaled. Together. In sync, like the old days before the world decided your marriage should come with dead bodies and surveillance drones.

“Do you ever think,” you began slowly, “we’re not built for raising whatever demonic gods we created in my uterus?”

Nanami stiffened slightly. “They’re not even born yet,” he said, “and they’ve already fractured the Ratio within my domain. I didn’t even know that was possible.”

You blinked. “Is that bad?”

“It’s… unprecedented. Like if someone sneezed in Gojo’s domain and it triggered another Big Bang.”

“Okay,” you said, “so our babies are nukes.”

“Nuclear metaphysical anomalies, yes.”

You turned to look up at him. “Hot.”

His gaze moved to yours, slow and calculating. Then he said, “You know, I’m considering drafting a postnatal battle schedule. Gojo handles diapers. I’ll do the feeding. You’ll direct operations. And I’m getting them into analytics by week three.”

"Are you really going to yell at the baby monitor like a mid-level manager dealing with performance issues?" You licked your lips, your gaze shifting from Nanami's eyes to his lips and back again.

“Of course,” leaning in, Nanami replied, dry as dust on an abandoned altar. “You married me for that.”

You opened your mouth to argue—something stupid and tender, something about how you married him for his soul, not his sarcasm—but the moment shifted before it was born.

The front door hissed open with a scream of cursed energy so thick it shattered the light overhead. A crack, like bone. A flash of power that wasn't yours and never would be.

“BABY, DADDY’S HOME~!”

Gojo’s voice hit the house like a storm siren with a god complex.

Both you and Nanami flinched, muscles tensing. It wasn't fear—never that—but rather the instinctive bracing that women felt when gods returned from war, knowing they weren't allowed to follow them into battle.

Nanami muttered, “God, not now,” but you heard what he meant.

Thank the gods. He's alive.

The door clicked shut. You could breathe again. Your heart tried; your lungs did not.

Gojo stormed in like a one-man apocalypse—blindfold shoved hastily into his coat pocket, dried blood streaking his sleeve (not his, not today). His eyes were exposed, too bright, too blue, too him—maddening and radiant, piercing with the kind of manic aliveness that meant he’d survived whatever he walked away from.

“Did I just hear my beloved spouses tenderly whispering about me behind my back?” he asked, voice pitched somewhere between mock-hurt and delighted. His grin could’ve cut glass, while his hair was even messier than usual, sticking up like static had kissed it, and his whole frame buzzed with restless energy, shoulders coiled tight beneath the silk lining of his coat. “Oh my god, you do care. Nanamin, was that actual concern I heard? Baby,”—he moved with faux horror—“were you about to write me a love letter?”

“Satoru,” you said. “Welcome home.” You sounded calm. You’d had practice.

Because wealth did not make you invincible. Because power in others’ hands was still a collar around your neck. Because your name on Forbes—on the lips of CEOs and senators—meant nothing when you woke to the space in your bed still warm, still bleeding with their absence. No matter how long you’d been with them, no matter how hard you’d tried to accept that your husbands fought and killed for a living to keep the society running normally, it never felt easy knowing that one day even the strongest sorcerer might not return home to you. There might be no ashes for your urns. No shroud. Maybe bone. Maybe a rumor. Maybe silence.

You’d memorized the loss's shape long before it arrived.

You knew what it meant to scream into pillows while PR teams scrubbed blood from the headlines. You had rehearsed the press statement for their deaths. You had drafted their eulogies and cried in the shower to see what your face would look like when it was time. You knew which ring to wear when they brought you the remains—if they brought you anything at all.

The thought of never retrieving his body—their bodies—clawed acid up your throat—the kind you’d drown the world in and still feel nothing.

Maybe it was your fault for loving men with actual substance to them.

You schooled your face. He didn’t need this.

So you smiled.

Because he was home.

Because Nanami was warm beside you.

Because the light had come back on.

Nanami felt your heart stutter; his fingers twitched against your wrist. He always sensed it. But instead of pointing it out, he deadpanned, “I was scheduling your funeral.”

Satoru laughed. Loud. Reckless. Alive.

You smiled. You did not scream.

“I knew it!” Gojo crowed. “I could feel your erotic longing!”

You laughed—too low, too sudden. It bubbled up wrong. Your ribs ached. You leaned into Nanami because the alternative was falling apart.

Gojo launched himself onto the couch like a meteor made of serotonin and aftershocks, snuggling both of you with zero hesitation. “I’m the president of Jujutsu Society and your uterus’s bestie,” he mumbled.

You made a noise halfway between a scoff and a whimper. Nanami didn’t blink.

“I was going to murder you with a spoon,” you whispered, still scrolling through your phone over his head, your fingers trembling slightly.

“Then put me in your will,” Satoru chirped, nuzzling into your neck. “Also, just from my vibes today, I scared so many people off.”

And he said it like it was funny. Like it was a joke. Like the violence hadn’t left a crackdown in the middle of the man you loved. Like he hadn’t just crawled out of someone else’s horror story to come back here and pretend the world still let you have peace, let you have them.

Nanami reached over and jammed a cushion under your feet. “Your vibes have a body count,” he muttered.

“Thank you; that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Gojo beamed. “You two are adorable when you worry about me. So sweet. So soft. So married.”

“You were eavesdropping,” Nanami accused.

“I was spiritually observing,” Gojo replied, his arms spreading across the cushions like a glorified golden retriever with war trauma.

“You look awful,” you said, brushing hair from his forehead.

“Thanks, babe. You should have seen the other guys.” Gojo sighed, eyes closing under your touch. “Oh wait—they are all dead.”

Then he looked at Nanami. “You were worried about me? That was so adorable.”

“I was calculating your recovery period post-burnout.”

“Translation: he loves me,” Gojo sang, then nuzzled his head into your chest. “Can I stay here forever?”

Nanami deadpanned, “Only if you eat those nutrition-approved momos I forced our chef to make.”

“What’s a momo?” he asked.

Then, before you could explain, he was asleep—sprawled across you both, childlike, limbs leaden with a fatigue only gods and soldiers knew. You ran your fingers through his hair.

Because this was the bargain you made.

Because rage, this ancient, wore a thousand faces.

Because grief could wait.

Maybe it was the hormones talking, but for now, you kept them warm. Human. Here.

Even if it killed you.

Minutes later, Nanami barked at the chef from the couch, his voice eerily calm and his sleeves rolled up to reveal tense forearms. “No refined flour. Less sodium. Steamed, not pan-fried.”

You snapped photos of a sleeping Gojo with animal filters—frog, rhino, hedgehog—god reduced to emojis. You stifled your giggles as you showed them to Nanami.

Nanami raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You know, if you keep this up, he might actually start believing he’s a frog. But I have to admit, it’s kind of adorable.”

You snorted, “he already knows he’s a frog.”

Your private chef—normally in charge of seasonal menus, imported produce, and at least one suspicious truffle per dish—nodded quickly. The man was sweating like he was facing down a war criminal. “Y-Yes, Nanami-san. Understood. Millet flour for wrappers, ginger infusion, turmeric-base chutney—”

“And more protein in the filling. Mushrooms, paneer, lean chicken, or I’ll have you making fish stock until your bones turn gelatinous. Do I make myself clear?”

“…Crystal.”

“That poor man just wants to make dumplings,” you said.

Nanami rubbed your stomach. “That man tried to feed you refined starches. That’s grounds for execution.”

You laughed—real and warm—and Nanami finally relaxed enough to cup the underside of your belly like he was steadying a priceless sculpture.

"You're radiant today," he sighed, thumb brushing your hipbone. "And I don't mean in the commercial maternity ad way but in "the sort that made emperors kneel" way.”

“Careful,” you hummed. “Talk like that and I might promote you to COO of this marriage.”

“I already am,” he said, arching a brow. “But if I ever had to pick between this household and the Jujutsu Society again—”

“...you are picking me?” You asked, softly mocking.

“I'm picking the twins,” he deadpanned. “They’d unionize if I neglected them.” Then, quietly added, “And yes. You. Always.”

The moment stilled.

You glanced toward the hallway, where Gojo’s shoes were scattered, where the energy had been blinding.

“He’ll exhaust himself.” You didn’t phrase it as a question, your thumb stroking Gojo’s cheek as he slept, his head a dead weight on your arm. Pregnancy made his usual human-weighted-blanket act borderline hazardous; otherwise, he would be trying to bury his face in your chest.

Nanami sighed, one hand settling on Gojo’s head, fingers carding through his stupidly soft hair—anchoring them to this moment, to this room, while Gojo had been trying to dismantle an entire corrupt institution with nothing but charm and casual genocide. “I know. That’s why I’m going with him.”

Your jaw clenched. Hormones turned your voice razor-sharp, but you didn't look up, just kept rubbing Gojo's cheek as he—still asleep—pulled you closer. "So you'll miss the twins' birth?"

His face did something complicated—sadness, regret, guilt, and that infuriating practicality all warring at once. “We won't be away, but if you and the babies are to be kept safe—he is to take over the role—we’d have to rewrite the entire Jujutsu structure. Clan corruption, mission protocol, sorcerer rights. You know what that takes.”

You inhaled deeply. “More blood.”

“And choices we don't want to make.”

Another beat of silence.

“He still sleeps like a kid when he is home,” you murmured. “But he talks in his sleep now.”

Nanami didn’t look surprised. “What does he say?”

“Names. Kids he couldn’t save. You. Me. The twins. Last week he said, ‘Don’t let them be cursed.’”

Nanami flinched, subtle but unmistakable.

You touched his hand, your thumb gliding along the faint scar by his knuckle. He relaxed under your touch the way only Nanami could—like it was the first time someone had ever let him breathe.

“He’s going to take the whole world on his back,” Nanami muttered. “And forget he has a family.”

You nodded, then smirked. “We could bribe him to rest. Offer performance bonuses. Coupons for ‘One Free Pregnant Lap Nap.’”

Nanami actually chuckled, nuzzling his face in your hair. “Do I get one too?”

“No,” you said. “You get quarterly emotional reviews. And a company car if you don't miss any OB appointments.”

His lips brushed your ear, voice rich and teasing, one hand rubbing soothing circles over your stomach and the other still running his nails through Gojo’s hair. “I’d like to renegotiate my benefits.”

“Submit a proposal in writing. Font Garamond. Double spaced. With references.”

Nanami laughed, then glared at any housekeeping staff who dared to look in your direction unnecessarily.

Later that evening, momos arrived. They were mediocre. Nanami chewed them in righteous judgment.

But you didn’t care. Maybe in this reality you understood Savitri.

---

Group Chat: Wife Support Network 💅

Postmortem Baddie: How’s Gojo?

Perpetually Horny: Shoko. I need you to understand what just happened.

Postmortem Baddie: Okay.

Perpetually Horny: He was doing push-ups. SHIRTLESS. And then he had the AUDACITY—to put one hand behind his back.

Postmortem Baddie: No.

Perpetually Horny: YES. And then he started counting. Out loud. "One." "Two." "Three—"

Cuntiest Bitch Alive: That man is the reason I can’t ethically prescribe meds anymore.

Postmortem Baddie: You're being spiritually derailed by pectorals.

HR Baddie: You let him finish the set?? I’d have thrown a Bible at him.

Perpetually Horny: I blacked out at “three.” I think I saw God. And she looked disappointed but also smug.

---

Group Chat: Wife Support Network 💅

(Inc: You, Shoko, Maya, CHRO)

Postmortem Baddie: Update?

Perpetually Horny: Gojo bench-pressed me.

Cuntiest Bitch Alive: No.

Perpetually Horny: YES.

Postmortem Baddie: Why?

Perpetually Horny: I said I felt heavy. He PICKED ME UP AND STARTED DOING REPS.

HR Baddie: Your marriage is a gym membership with trauma.

Cuntiest Bitch Alive: Did I not say no sexual contact until you all rebuild emotional regulation?

Perpetually Horny: I asked him to stop. He said, “Relax, sweetheart. This is light work.” Then winked. WINKED.

HR Baddie: I swear to god if you end up in labor because that himbo used you as a dumbbell—

Postmortem Baddie: Satoru pretends to take things lightly. He’s not actually stupid. Also, how’s Nanami doing?

Perpetually Horny: He got back from the gym.

HR Baddie: Say less.

Perpetually Horny: He walked in. Sweat dripping down his neck. Shirt clinging like a threat. And then—He made a sound.

Postmortem Baddie: What kind of sound?

Perpetually Horny: Like a low grunt. Deep. Unholy. A noise from the pre-verbal part of the human soul.

Postmortem Baddie: You’re pregnant because of this exact behavior.

HR Baddie: He’s the reason paternity leave should come with PTSD therapy.

Cuntiest Bitch Alive: So just to be clear—still no sex.

HR Baddie: You married two Greek tragedies and turned them into a gym class.

---

This Is How You Get Twins, Sir

You were trying to find the HDMI cable.

That was it. That was all.

You were not—contrary to Gojo’s paranoid delusion—a flight risk, nor about to “go into premature labor because of HDMI-related rage.” You were simply standing in the media room, side-eyeing a nest of tangled black wires, holding your lower back like a war widow. One hand on your bump. One foot wedged behind a speaker. You were, objectively, suffering.

“Don’t move,” came Gojo’s voice from the hallway, firm in that stupid way that made you want to both listen and rebel out of spite. You didn’t have time to argue. He appeared in the doorway two seconds later, barefoot, towel slung loose around his hips like he’d been summoned straight from a fan edit.

“You’re wet,” you muttered, because your brain short-circuited the second you saw his chest, water glistening like thirst trap lighting.

“I’m damp,” he corrected, smug. “And you’re waddling like a hostile penguin. Sit.”

“I need the HDMI—”

“Sit.”

He closed the space in three strides. His palm was wide, steadying your lower back without asking, and you flinched—not in pain, but at the heat. He smelled like bergamot and shampoo and a man with too many opinions on your rest schedule. And he was looking at you like you were glass. Not fragile, but precious. Expensive. Untouchable unless he earned it.

You gave in with a sigh and let him guide you—gently, carefully—into the big armchair.

“Lean forward,” he said, voice dipping like he knew exactly what he was doing. His hands skimmed the top of your shoulders, then dragged down, kneading through the tension you’d been ignoring for weeks.

His hands were hot. His thumbs knew where to press. You made a noise you instantly regretted. Gojo stilled.

“You okay?”

You cleared your throat. “You're disgusting.”

He leaned in, mouth close to your ear. You could feel the shape of his smile.

“Feel that?” he whispered, taking your hand and pressing it to his chest. His heart was thumping like he’d sprinted across a battlefield. “That’s my heart vibrating. For you.”

You blinked. “You absolute whore.”

“But you know what’s beating harder?” His voice dropped, silk over static. You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Your palm was still on his chest. His other hand had dipped lower, spreading wide at the base of your neck like he was mapping out a new territory.

“You’re not allowed to die, y’know,” he murmured. “Ever. You scared the hell out of me.”

You paused. Something in your throat squeezed tight.

“I didn’t die,” you said quietly.

He kissed your temple like it didn’t matter. Like you were alive now, and that was enough.

And then—

Of course—

The door creaked open.

Nanami, hair damp from the rain, holding a tiny blue onesie in one hand, stared at the scene: you half-limp in Gojo’s lap, his mouth too close to your throat, your hands entangled like you were mid-coitus or prayer.

Silence.

Nanami’s brows twitched. “...Is this about the HDMI cable?”

Gojo, unfazed: “No. This is about healing.”

You: “This is how I ended up with twins.”

Nanami sighed. Stepped inside. Dropped the onesie beside you like a gentle verdict. You watched his gaze fall to your belly—round and heavy with movement—and something in his face cracked open.

“It’s so small,” he murmured. You weren’t sure if he meant the onesie or your remaining sense of peace. But he crouched. Rubbed your belly with reverence. Whispered, “Can’t believe they’re almost here.”

His voice was hoarse.

Gojo kissed your shoulder. Nanami kissed your stomach. You closed your eyes.

You were still in pain. Still pissed. Still tired.

But for one second, you felt like a goddess being worshipped by two very emotionally unstable men.

Which, honestly? Fair.

---

Next Chapter 22 (alt ending 2.13) - Things Broken Are Still Yours - Part 2 - (Tumblr/Ao3)

A spin-off Crack series in the same AU - (Tumblr/Ao3)

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