Chapter Text
Gojo Satoru, the scourge of curses, the bane of stuffy elders, the unchallenged king of "I'm-so-powerful-it's-boring," needed help. Serious help. The kind of help that couldn't be solved by his limitless cursed technique or an extra scoop of ice cream. Gojo Satoru, the emotionally stunted, was in love.
Okay, maybe "stunted" was a bit harsh. It's not like he walked around kicking puppies or anything. But self-awareness? Emotional depth? Those were skills best left to mere mortals, or so he’d always believed.
He was in love.
There. He’d said it. Admitted it, even if only to himself. Well, thought it, which was a major step for someone who considered acknowledging his own reflection in a mirror a monumental waste of his precious time.
The object of his affections? None other than his wife.
Yes, you read that right. Wife. His wife. Ieiri Shoko. The woman who could suture a severed limb with one hand and down a bottle of sake with the other.
Before you start picturing a whirlwind romance, stolen kisses under a moonlit sky, and Gojo finally meeting his match in a battle of wits and cursed energy, pump the brakes. Their love story was less a romantic epic, more a slow-burn mystery novel with a healthy dose of absurdist comedy thrown in for good measure.
On paper, it seemed straightforward enough. They were married, weren’t they? They had a kid. They cohabited relatively peacefully.
Or so he'd thought.
He'd known Shoko practically his entire life. They'd met at Jujutsu Tech, two prodigies thrown together by fate and a shared tolerance for chaos. She'd been the only one who could handle his antics, the only one who could patch him up after a particularly messy fight without succumbing to the urge to inject him with a permanent sedative.
Sure, he cared about Shoko. He respected her intelligence, admired her dry wit, and appreciated her uncanny ability.
He was even fairly certain he found her attractive, in a "damn, she rocks that lab coat" kind of way.
But love?
The kind of love that made your chest ache with an unfamiliar tenderness, the kind that made you want to be a better man, the kind that made you question every life choice that had led you to this moment, staring at your wife across the breakfast table and feeling like you were seeing her for the first time.
That was a level of emotional vulnerability he wasn't sure he was equipped to handle.
And the most frustrating part? He couldn't even pinpoint the exact moment it had happened.
Was it the way Shoko’s eyes crinkled when she laughed at his jokes, even the truly terrible ones? Or the way she effortlessly navigated his chaotic energy, her presence a calming balm to his hurricane of a personality? Or maybe it was the simple yet profound realization that he couldn't imagine his life, messy and unpredictable as it was, without her by his side.
The thing was, Gojo hadn't realized he was in love with Shoko until recently. Like, REALLY recently.
He faltered, unable to articulate the strange cocktail of emotions swirling within him. How could he explain this sudden urge to be near her, this overwhelming need to decipher the secrets hidden behind her cool gaze, the way his heart did a ridiculous stutter-step whenever she touched his arm, even if it was to shove him aside as she tended to their son’s latest scraped knee?
Until now, that is.
The realization had struck him, as most life-altering epiphanies tend to do, in the most mundane of settings: a crowded supermarket, amidst the cacophony of screaming children, overflowing shopping carts, and Gojo’s own internal monologue, which was currently engaged in a heated debate over the merits of limited-edition Pocky flavors.
He'd watched, a strange warmth spreading through his chest (indigestion? Surely not again?), as Shoko effortlessly navigated the chaos, her brow furrowed in concentration as she compared prices on different brands of instant miso soup, her expression softening as she added a bag of his favorite gummy candies to their overflowing cart.
It was a simple act, yet, for some inexplicable reason, it sent a jolt of something akin to electricity through Gojo’s usually impervious heart.
He couldn’t breathe. He couldn't think. He could only stare, his Six Eyes, usually capable of perceiving the most intricate of curses, rendered useless by the sheer force of the revelation that had just slammed into him with the subtlety of a runaway train.
And that’s when it hit him.
This woman, this amazing, infuriating, utterly captivating woman, was his wife.
HIS.
The thought sent a jolt of something hot and electric through his veins, a feeling so alien, so exhilarating, it nearly knocked him off his feet.
He wanted to…he didn’t even know what he wanted to do. Shower her with gifts? Declare his undying love in a booming voice that would shatter every jar of pickles in a five-mile radius? Challenge a particularly menacing curse to a duel in her honor?
The absurdity of his thoughts made him chuckle, a sound that drew a curious glance from a nearby shopper.
“So, let me get this straight,” Nanami repeated, his voice carefully devoid of inflection, though his carefully cultivated composure was starting to crack. “You’re in love with…Ieiri?”
Gojo, sprawled across Nanami’s meticulously-organized couch with the grace of a disgruntled cat, nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! Isn’t it great? Isn't it just …mind-blowingly amazing?”
It was, in fact, mind-bogglingly frustrating. Gojo, it seemed, had finally succumbed to the one curse even his Infinity couldn’t deflect – love. And not just any love, but a love so ludicrously obvious, so deeply ingrained in their shared history, that it had taken the man a decade of marriage and a genius child to even recognize it.
"You do realize," Nanami began, pushing his glasses up his nose with a sigh, "that you're married to her, right? Have been for ten years. And you have a son together. A rather brilliant one, who can recite the Gojo Clan genealogy back to the Edo period.”
"Don't say it like that, Nanami! It makes me sound like an idiot." Gojo groaned.
"That's because you're acting like one." Nanami shrugged.
“But how can I be sure? I mean, we never had a proper courtship. We just…happened.”
"You got her pregnant. That's usually a pretty clear indicator of something."
"Yes, thank you, for the biology lesson. I'm aware of the mechanics of reproduction. I'm talking about…feelings. Emotions."
He was utterly, hopelessly, ridiculously in love with Ieiri Shoko. His wife. The mother of his child. The woman who could probably dismantle his ego with a well-placed scalpel and a raised eyebrow.
Well, let's go over all the events and see if we can glean any useful information.
Starting from that fateful night.
It wasn't love at first sight, nor a whirlwind romance. Their story began with a haze of fever, a drunken stupor, and a shared silence heavier than any curse they'd faced. They were both young, powerful, and utterly unprepared for the messy reality that unfolded one humid summer night.
Gojo, usually invincible, found himself floored by a particularly nasty strain of the flu. The fever made his head swim, his senses rebelling as he stumbled through the deserted corridors of Jujutsu Tech. He’d sought solace in the clinic, the familiar scent of antiseptic and the promise of a potent painkiller pulling him towards the doctor.
Shoko, overworked as always, hadn’t batted an eyelid at his arrival. She’d tossed him a bottle of water and a handful of pills, her gaze clinical as she assessed his flushed cheeks and glassy eyes.
"You should get that looked at," Shoko murmured. “You look like hell.”
“I’m fine,” Gojo mumbled, taking another swig of his soda. He coughed, the drink catching in his throat. “Damn, I think I’m coming down with something.”
“Of course you are. Because invincible sorcerers are apparently not immune to the common cold.”
“Very funny, Shoko.”
He drained the rest of his soda, his head spinning.
The next few hours were a blur, a hazy montage of fragmented memories and sensory overload. He vaguely recalled the feel of Shoko's cool hand on his forehead, the scent of her lavender-tinged soap, the sharp sting of her nails digging into his back, the way her usually gentle touch turned fierce and possessive. He remembered the way she’d tasted, the feel of her body pressed against his, the raw, desperate need that had consumed them both.
He came to with a gasp, his head pounding, the aftershocks of adrenaline coursing through him. His clothes were scattered across the floor, torn and askew, as though a wild animal had attacked them. His shirt was missing a button, and he could have sworn he'd heard it pop off with enough force to embed itself in the wall. He was naked, his skin slick with sweat, a dull ache throbbing in his lower back.
Gojo’s gaze shot down to his own body, his mind struggling to reconcile the ache in his lower back with the faint, lingering scent of her arousal clinging to his skin. Her cursed technique couldn’t have caused that.
And then he saw her.
Shoko stood frozen by the sink, her back to him, her bare shoulders marred by a telltale mark, a blooming bruise that mirrored one he knew pulsed on his own hip. She was gathering the remnants of their clothes, her movements stiff, her shoulders hunched as if carrying the weight of the world.
Their eyes met across the room, hers wide with a mixture of shock and something akin to regret, while he reflected a potent mix of confusion, desire, and a healthy dose of “what the hell just happened?”
The silence stretched, punctuated only by the frantic thumping of his own heart. And in that moment, panic seized him. He didn't need words, didn't need explanations. The evidence was scattered around them, undeniable as the scent of their mingled sweat, the lingering heat clinging to their skin. They'd crossed a line, shattered a boundary they'd both sworn never to breach.
He reacted instinctively, the world blurred, the familiar sensation of his Infinity enveloping him like a shield. The last image he saw before he blinked away was Shoko’s face, her eyes wide with a mixture of relief and something akin to… disappointment?
He didn't return to the clinic that night, or the next. They avoided each other's eyes, their usual banter replaced by a tense silence. It was simpler, safer that way.
Or so he told himself. He hadn't dared to ask for confirmation, and Shoko, thankfully, hadn't offered any.
The aftermath of the "non-date" hung in the air like a particularly potent curse, unspoken but ever-present. They both masters of deflecting and dismissing, became champions of avoidance. Neither dared to address the elephant-sized, claw-marked, hickey-ridden shikigami in the room.
Until that is, Shoko started getting "a bit off."
It began with persistent fatigue that even her seemingly endless reserves of energy couldn't shake. Her usual sharp wit dulled, replaced by a quiet weariness. Then came the nausea, striking at the most inopportune times – during autopsies, in the middle of lunch, even during meetings, much to Gojo’s (secret) amusement. Not the I-drank-too-much-sake kind of nausea, but the persistent, soul-deep kind that clung to her like a bad smell, arriving in waves, triggered by the mere whiff of certain foods, the scent of antiseptic in the clinic, and even the sight of Gojo's particularly vibrant Hawaiian shirt.
At first, Shoko brushed it off as exhaustion, the inevitable consequence of her demanding workload.
One afternoon, as she dry-heaved over the clinic sink for the third time that day, Gojo barged in, his face a mask of concern.
"This is getting ridiculous," he exclaimed, his hands hovering over her as if afraid to touch. The memory of their last physical contact hung heavy in the air. "You've been sick for weeks. We're going to see a doctor."
Shoko, pale and trembling, could only manage a weak reply, "I am a doctor. It's probably just exhaustion."
Gojo, however, wasn’t convinced. He'd seen her stitch up Grade 2 curses with more energy than she currently possessed. He marched out of the infirmary, returning moments later, his hands clutching a plastic bag. He dumped the contents onto her desk – three pregnancy tests, their plastic casings gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights.
"Here," he said. "Humor me."
"Really?"
"Just take the test, Shoko," he insisted.
Emotions crashed over her – apprehension, fear, and a sliver of something akin to hope. She snatched the tests from him, disappearing into the bathroom with a curt, "Don't just stand there, idiot. Get out!"
After a moment.
The first test.
One line. Negative.
She exhaled and then repeated the process, as a precaution.
The results, however, were far from precautionary.
Two lines. Positive.
Shoko stared at the two pink lines, her mind reeling. She repeated the test a third time, her hand shaking so badly that she almost dropped the plastic stick.
POSITIVE.
Gojo's initial reaction was a mixture of panic and disbelief. How could this be happening? This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Their lives were already complicated enough without adding an unexpected pregnancy to the mix.
"You're..."
"Keeping it," she stated. "Don't worry. I'll take care of this. I don't need you to play happy families."
“And if your clan gives you trouble, I’ll disappear. Transfer to some remote branch, raise this child far away from all this… chaos.”
“Shoko, just… shut up, okay?”
Then, he pulled her into a hug, his arms wrapping around her tightly. He rested his chin on top of her head, a low rumble vibrating through his chest, a sound of comfort and reassurance that spoke volumes in the silent clinic.
They stood there for a moment, their bodies pressed together, their silence speaking volumes. It wasn't a fairy tale, not yet. They had a long, complicated road ahead of them, but for the first time since that hazy summer night, they faced it together.
They were in this together, for better or for worse.
The news of Shoko's pregnancy ripped through Jujutsu Tech like a rogue curse, leaving a trail of bewildered whispers and raised eyebrows in its wake. Gojo, initially relishing in the stunned silence that greeted his casual announcement ("Shoko's having a kid, by the way – mine, obviously!"), quickly realized that not everyone shared their... unconventional enthusiasm for the impending arrival. The most common reaction was a collective "Wait, they weren't already married?" followed by a flurry of speculation and whispered theories about shotgun weddings, forced engagements, and the potential wrath of the Gojo clan elders.
"Sensei, you finally got yourself a baby mama!" Yuji jokes, earning a playful swat from Gojo.
Others expressed their concerns, worried about the impact the scandal would have on the reputation of Jujutsu Tech and the future of the unborn child.
"What about the baby?" one concerned student whispered to Megumi. "Won't it be stigmatized for being born out of wedlock?"
Megumi simply shrugged. "They will handle it."
Their fellow teachers offered a mixed bag of reactions. Some, like Yaga, simply sighed and muttered something about “irresponsible youths” while discreetly pulling out a bottle of celebratory sake. Others, like Nanami, offered pragmatic advice, laced with a healthy dose of disapproval.
Mei Mei saw an opportunity for profit. “Baby gifts are an excellent investment,” she mused, her eyes gleaming with entrepreneurial zeal. “High demand, low supply.”
In the headmaster's office, Yaga surveyed the scene before him with a weary sigh. The Gojo clan elders had transformed his office into a battleground of passive-aggressive glares and thinly veiled threats.
Gojo, lounging on a chair with an air of nonchalant boredom, idly cleaned his sunglasses. While Shoko just calmly sipped her tea, like all these things have nothing to do with her.
“Satoru,” boomed the elder Gojo, “explain yourself. This…situation is utterly unacceptable!”
“The situation is that Shoko’s pregnant, old man. Get used to it.”
"This is preposterous! The Gojo heir, siring a child out of wedlock! It's a scandal that could shake the very foundation of our esteemed clan!"
"Look, gramps," Gojo interrupted, "the kid's gonna be strong, alright? You can complain about the circumstances all you want, but those genes are top-notch."
"Nonsense!" thundered the lead elder. "A child deserves a proper upbringing, a stable home with two married parents. You will rectify this situation immediately!"
“Alright, alright,” Shoko interjected, her voice cutting through the tension like a scalpel, “we get it. Marriage is a sacred institution, blah, blah, blah. But can we at least have this discussion without sounding like a broken record?”
As the elders continued their tirade, Gojo, sensing Shoko's discomfort, finally snapped.
"Enough! We'll get married when we're damn well ready! And if you don't like it, you can take your traditions and shove them where the sun doesn't shine!"
With that, he grabbed Shoko's hand – a rare display of public affection – and marched out of the room, leaving the elders sputtering in their wake.
As they walked away, Shoko couldn't help but smile, a genuine smile that reached her eyes for the first time since the pregnancy test had turned positive.
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it. Those old geezers need to learn that some traditions are meant to be broken."
However, his words were met with gasps of horror and a chorus of disapproving murmurs. Even his fellow teachers, usually accustomed to his antics, seemed to side with the elders on this matter.
Even Nanami was reprimanded. “Gojo, as much as I loathe to admit it, the elders have a point. A child needs a stable home, a proper family structure.”
Meanwhile, Shoko found herself facing a different, albeit equally frustrating, form of pressure. Her colleagues, while generally supportive of her decision to keep the baby, couldn't comprehend why she wasn't demanding a ring from Gojo Satoru, the most eligible bachelor in the jujutsu world.
"Shoko," Utahime chimed in during a rare moment of shared downtime, "I know you two have a... unique understanding. But don't you think you deserve a proper proposal, a wedding, the whole nine yards?"
"Marriage is a big step. It's not something we're ready to rush into, even with a baby on the way."
"But it's Gojo! He might be an arrogant, infuriating pain in the ass, but he's a good fit with you."
"We'll figure it out," Shoko said. "Our way."
Yaga Masamichi found himself thrust into the role of mediator, peacemaker, and reluctant wedding planner.
The Gojo clan elders demand a grand wedding befitting their illustrious lineage. Yaga, however, saw an opportunity to appease the elders while also securing a more stable future for the unborn child and, perhaps selfishly, a bit of peace for himself.
He then gathered the soon-to-be parents in his office after the messy meeting with the elders.
“I’ve spoken with the elders and they are insistent on a proper ceremony.”
Gojo groaned, slumping in his chair. "A big, stuffy wedding? Spare me."
"I told them we would honor their wishes. A small, private ceremony. Immediate family only. And…” Yaga paused, savoring the moment, “a legally binding agreement ensuring the child inherits all rightful clan properties and assets.”
A stunned silence filled the room.
Gojo straightened up, his eyes wide with surprise. "Wait, seriously? They went for that?"
"They may be stubborn, but they are also pragmatic. A direct heir, born within the sanctity of marriage, ensures the continuation of their precious lineage and secures their assets for generations to come."
“Now they’re speaking my language.” Gojo grinned as he stood up from the chair.
“A small price to pay for a lifetime of peace and quiet,” she mused.
Shoko saw the opportunity for what it was – a chance to secure their child’s future, to provide them with the stability and resources that had eluded both her and Gojo.
And so, the soon-to-be parents found themselves swept up in the whirlwind of a shotgun wedding.
The ceremony itself was a small, subdued affair, held in the tranquil gardens of Jujutsu Tech.
The vows were exchanged, the papers signed, the deal sealed.
Their "first date" was, by all accounts, an unmitigated disaster. A fact that wouldn't have surprised anyone except, perhaps, Gojo Satoru himself.
It was three months after the shotgun wedding. Five months pregnant and radiating an aura of exasperated tolerance, Shoko agreed to Gojo's grand idea of a picnic.
"A do-over," he'd declared. "Our first date, but, you know, without the vomit-inducing tequila and questionable life choices."
"You do realize I'll be the size of a small house by then, right?"
"All the more of you to love." He said, offering her his most charming smile, the one that usually had women (and some men, much to his amusement) swooning at his feet.
The date, a picnic meticulously planned by Gojo (he'd even consulted a guidebook titled "101 Romantic Picnic Ideas to Make Her Swoon!"), was scheduled for a sunny Saturday afternoon. He envisioned a picturesque scene – a checkered blanket spread beneath a blossoming cherry tree, a basket overflowing with gourmet delicacies, and Shoko, radiant in the afternoon sun, her eyes sparkling with appreciation for his efforts.
Gojo, true to form, was late. Excruciatingly late.
He’d panicked. What constituted a proper first date when you were already married and expecting a child? Flowers seemed cliché, a fancy restaurant felt pretentious. So, he’d settled on a picnic, meticulously planned and executed (or so he hoped). He'd spent the last three hours scouring the city for the perfect blanket, agonizing over the selection of gourmet cheeses, and even attempting (and failing miserably) to bake a batch of macarons. He was finally en route to their designated picnic spot. An hour and a half late.
Shoko, meanwhile, had gone straight from a grueling morning of meetings and dissections to their designated meeting spot, a secluded clearing in a nearby park. She sat patiently on a park bench, her swollen ankles propped up on a nearby rock, a medical journal resting on her burgeoning belly, as she waited for her perpetually tardy husband. Her only companions a well-worn copy of medical journals and the occasional curious squirrel. Pregnancy hormones did little to improve her patience.
Then BOOM.
"Sorry, sorry!" Gojo exclaimed, teleporting into the clearing with a loud crack, nearly giving Shoko a heart attack. "Got caught up with a… a thing."
Shoko gave him a quick glare. "Indeed. Care to join me? Or are you planning to eat standing up?"
Her husband mortified by his tardiness, quickly set up the picnic, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. He poured her a glass of sparkling grape juice (alcohol being off-limits for the expectant mother), his hand shaking so violently that he ended up drenching her sleeve in the process.
“Damn it,” he muttered, dabbing at the spill with a napkin, his face turning the same shade as the spilled juice.
Shoko sighed. "Are you alright? You've been acting... odd."
"Easy for you to say," he grumbled. "You're not the one trying to woo the most beautiful woman in the world with a perfectly chilled bottle of sparkling grape juice."
"Sparkling grape juice?"
"Pregnancy-friendly," Gojo said with a wink, hoping to mask the frantic thumping of his heart. "Gotta keep our little passenger happy, right?"
Shoko, stifling a laugh, shook her head. She'd never seen him so flustered, so…normal. It was endearing, in a strange sort of way.
He avoided her gaze, his cheeks flushed, his hair even more chaotically styled than usual.
She saw the fear, the insecurity in him, even though she'd already said yes, twice – once at the altar and again when they decided to face parenthood together.
And as he looked at Shoko, her brow furrowed in confusion, her lips curved into a slight frown, he couldn't help but think, "Screw it. I'm the luckiest bastard alive."
He’d gotten her pregnant, accidentally. He’d more or less tricked her into marrying him. Yet, here she was, radiant and patient, giving him a chance, giving them a chance.
“Shoko…” he began, then stopped, unsure of what to say.
She looked at him expectantly, her head tilted slightly to the side.
Gojo froze, his gaze locking onto hers. How could he explain the unexplainable? How could he confess that the woman he'd accidentally impregnated, the woman he'd coerced into marriage, was the very same woman who made his heart race and his palms sweat like a teenager?
He couldn't. It was too much, too soon, too terrifyingly real.
So instead, he did what he did best – he deflected.
“So,” He cleared his throat, his usual confidence returning in a rush, "how was your day at Jujutsu Tech?"
He instantly regretted the question. What was he thinking? Asking a pregnant woman, who also happened to be a highly skilled doctor and a jujutsu sorcerer, about her day was like asking a dragon about its fire-breathing schedule. It was a given that it was probably more eventful, and infinitely more tiring than his own.
Shoko, leaning back against a cherry blossom tree, her hand unconsciously resting on her burgeoning stomach, shrugged. "The usual chaos. Nanami's lecturing a group of first-years on the importance of overtime pay, Itadori almost blew up the training grounds, and Yaga is threatening to unleash the Panda on anyone who disturbs his afternoon tea."
Gojo chuckled, picturing the scenes with perfect clarity. He'd always loved Shoko's dry wit, her ability to find humor in the absurdity of their world. He found himself captivated, not by her words particularly, but by the way her lips curved when she spoke, the way her nose scrunched in amusement, the way her hand cradled her stomach with an unconscious tenderness that tugged at something deep within him.
He was so engrossed in the visual symphony of her that he completely missed her calling his name, his mind adrift in a sea of "how did I get so lucky?" and "damn, she's even hotter when she's ranting about cursed refrigerators."
"...asking you a question, Satoru," Shoko's voice snapped him out of his reverie.
"Hmm? Sorry, love," he blinked. "My mind wandered for a moment. Must be the fresh air."
Shoko raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, but let it slide. She'd known Gojo long enough to recognize his tells. However, she couldn’t deny a flicker of satisfaction at being the cause of his distraction.
Gojo's overwhelmed. He'd never seen her like this – radiant, vulnerable, her usual stoicism softened by a maternal warmth that transformed her into someone… different. Someone he couldn't quite define, but couldn't tear his eyes away from.
Yet, watching his wife now, her hand resting protectively over their child, her face softened by a tenderness he’d never thought he’d witness from a woman who worshipped at the altar of cigarettes and wine, a different truth began to dawn on him.
He wanted this, craved it with an intensity that surprised him. He wanted her, wanted their bickering over breakfast, wanted their late-night talks about cursed techniques and the latest medical journals, wanted to witness every eye roll and sarcastic remark, wanted it all, the good, the bad, and the utterly chaotic symphony their lives had become.
He wanted to be the reason for her smile, the source of that tenderness.
He wanted to be the one to chase away the shadows in her eyes, the one to make her laugh until her sides ached.
Throughout the date, his gaze kept drifting back to Shoko, to the way the sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dancing shadows across her face, to the subtle rise and fall of her chest as she spoke, to the gentle swell of her belly beneath her loose-fitting dress.
He'd seen Shoko pregnant before, of course. The evidence of their "non-date" was impossible to miss. But there was something different about seeing her now, in the daylight, with the cherry blossoms raining down around them like confetti.
He'd never thought much about pregnancy, to the intricate biological processes that transformed two individuals into three. His knowledge of childbirth extended as far as "it's messy, painful, and best left to professionals like Shoko."
He tried to convince himself that his sudden surge of affection was purely paternal. He was going to be a father, after all. It was only natural to feel a sense of protectiveness towards the mother of his child.
Yet, a nagging voice whispered a different truth. The way his heart skipped a beat when she smiled, the way his fingers twitched with the urge to reach out and brush a stray lock of hair from her face, the way his gaze lingered a beat too long on her lips, these were not the actions of a man solely driven by paternal obligation.
And the realization hit, that maybe, just maybe, this whole "accidental pregnancy, shotgun wedding, forced family" situation wasn't so bad after all.
He might have gotten Shoko pregnant by accident, but he was falling for her on purpose.
The absurdity of the situation struck him with the force of a thousand exploding curses. He threw back his head and let out a laugh, a genuine, unrestrained sound that echoed through the clearing.
Shoko stared at him, bewildered, and then a slow smile spread across her face. His laughter, his unguarded joy, was infectious.
Yes, Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer alive, needed help. And fast.
Little did he know, Shoko, with her usual blend of exasperation and affection, was already several steps ahead of him, patiently waiting for her clueless husband to catch up.