𝓡𝓪𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓮𝓵

Gojo Satoru does not get jealous.

Never.

No, he is not seething that his baby refuses to say dada.

“dada.”

“mama!”

“no. dada.”

“..mama!”

A vein pops in his forehead. His gut is bubbling with the same green churning ooze that always overflows when his wife haggles with a vendor among the farmers markets and their eyes drift down too low.

“…dada.” He attempts again.

“..mama!”

He droops his head against her chubby tummy. Immediately, her pudgy potato hands come to grip at his hair, cooing happily at his warmth.

“I’ve fed you the same banana puree for months.” Satoru murmurs.

“I change your diapers eight times a day. Eight.”

“I adjust your blankie too many times every night because you hate it when it covers your face.”

“I gave you my last strawberry edition mochi yesterday. And you still won’t say dada.” He’s begging at this point. He lifts his head up to peer at her big doe eyes, only to melt again when he’s met with the exact same eyes that he fell in love with many moons ago. He lets out a droopy sigh, before blowing a small raspberry on her chubby tummy, eliciting a happy squeal from her.

And to further make him grumpy, you casually pad in from the other room to visit the duo- an innocent smile etched on your face, unaware of your husband’s inner turmoils. As soon as your slippers cross the boarders of the nursery, she’s zoom-crawling towards you with a speed akin to a little ant finding a crumb.

Satoru bangs his head against the play mats, “Autocracy wins again.”

I stay in my room and stare into the mirror when I hear the keys hit the door, clenching my stomach as close to myself as possible. I laugh at how different we are when I trace my ribs and my hollowed out face. Perfection. My stomach hugs my ribs like my father never has.

But

my breathe still smells of the same liquor. I wonder if we both had New Amsterdam tonight. If he took his shots before brushing his teeth like I did. If he stared in the mirror for hours with the same look of distain on his face. If I chewed the same food as him, and if I was the only one spitting it back out into the sink. If I’m the only one trying to hide how fucked up I am.

the room is cold and I wonder if he needs a blanket. I remember what it was like when I was young. The yelling and screaming and crying and hitting and wishing I was somewhere else. Wishing I was home. But I think I deserve to be right where I am right now. In my body, the one I chose for myself like I could never chose anything else. Two children, two victims, cut from the same cloth, with only one apparent difference.

and yet I am beautiful. And yet I am cool.

я его невероятно обожаю!! <3