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.”

Did you buy a vanity because that one corner of your shared bedroom looked too empty and Satoru couldn’t resist your beady eyed look?

Yes.

Did he also look at your phone to see what the vanity looked like and just told you to add it to the cart without even looking at the price?

Yes.

As the official designated handy-dad of the family, he had taken it up himself to start reconstructing as soon as the packages had arrived on your front door step. With a low whistle and a hum, he starts his mini project of building your vanity.

“Baaaabe. Why does this thing have like- so much light bulbs? Are you trying to conduct an experiment in our room or something?” He calls out lazily, quirking a brow at the thick mirror which holds the lights made to provide a clear illumination for your daily grooming tasks. His hand slips slightly, and a few bolts that he was holding drop to the floor with a clatter, “Oh, shit—”

“…Shit!”

He freezes.

That was not you. That didn’t sound like you at all.

That was their baby. Mini you. Mini baby you. In her little oak crib, eagerly bobbing up and down on her chubby knees- the door wide open with a direct view of papa constructing mama’s new project. Sweet girl has been mimicking them both ever since she uttered out her first ‘mama!’

“…Oh.” His inhale is exhilaratingly long, “Oho.”

“…Shit!!”

“Okay, NO—” He’s already sprinting to the nursery, vanity already at the back of his mind, “Noooo. Don’t say that. Please. I beg of you. Mana is going to murder me. Can you say ‘mama’? or better yet, ‘dada?’ Dada? Please say dada.”

“SHIT!” She squeals happily, flapping her pudgy hands up and down excitedly, proud that she learnt a new word.

“WHY-”

His blood pressure heightens when he feels a presence behind him. He gulps. He’s faced curses that have levelled towers, have eaten people for fun. He’s faced the higherups squawking of systemically approaches. He’s even faced Nanami’s long speeches about taxes.

But this?

This is what he fears the most.

His pregnant wife. With a wooden spoon batting up and down in your hand- the tip dripping with his favourite curry sauce. Impending doom awaiting for him.

“‘Toru.”

He heaves a sob, “It’s not what it looks like. Please.”

“SHIIIIT!!”

Did you buy a vanity because that one corner of your shared bedroom looked too empty and Satoru couldn’t resist your beady eyed look?

Yes.

Did he also look at your phone to see what the vanity looked like and just told you to add it to the cart without even looking at the price?

Yes.

As the official designated handy-dad of the family, he had taken it up himself to start reconstructing as soon as the packages had arrived on your front door step. With a low whistle and a hum, he starts his mini project of building your vanity.

“Baaaabe. Why does this thing have like- so much light bulbs? Are you trying to conduct an experiment in our room or something?” He calls out lazily, quirking a brow at the thick mirror which holds the lights made to provide a clear illumination for your daily grooming tasks. His hand slips slightly, and a few bolts that he was holding drop to the floor with a clatter, “Oh, shit—”

“…Shit!”

He freezes.

That was not you. That didn’t sound like you at all.

That was their baby. Mini you. Mini baby you. In her little oak crib, eagerly bobbing up and down on her chubby knees- the door wide open with a direct view of papa constructing mama’s new project. Sweet girl has been mimicking them both ever since she uttered out her first ‘mama!’

“…Oh.” His inhale is exhilaratingly long, “Oho.”

“…Shit!!”

“Okay, NO—” He’s already sprinting to the nursery, vanity already at the back of his mind, “Noooo. Don’t say that. Please. I beg of you. Mana is going to murder me. Can you say ‘mama’? or better yet, ‘dada?’ Dada? Please say dada.”

“SHIT!” She squeals happily, flapping her pudgy hands up and down excitedly, proud that she learnt a new word.

“WHY-”

His blood pressure heightens when he feels a presence behind him. He gulps. He’s faced curses that have levelled towers, have eaten people for fun. He’s faced the higherups squawking of systemically approaches. He’s even faced Nanami’s long speeches about taxes.

But this?

This is what he fears the most.

His pregnant wife. With a wooden spoon batting up and down in your hand- the tip dripping with his favourite curry sauce. Impending doom awaiting for him.

“‘Toru.”

He heaves a sob, “It’s not what it looks like. Please.”

“SHIIIIT!!”

Did you buy a vanity because that one corner of your shared bedroom looked too empty and Satoru couldn’t resist your beady eyed look?

Yes.

Did he also look at your phone to see what the vanity looked like and just told you to add it to the cart without even looking at the price?

Yes.

As the official designated handy-dad of the family, he had taken it up himself to start reconstructing as soon as the packages had arrived on your front door step. With a low whistle and a hum, he starts his mini project of building your vanity.

“Baaaabe. Why does this thing have like- so much light bulbs? Are you trying to conduct an experiment in our room or something?” He calls out lazily, quirking a brow at the thick mirror which holds the lights made to provide a clear illumination for your daily grooming tasks. His hand slips slightly, and a few bolts that he was holding drop to the floor with a clatter, “Oh, shit—”

“…Shit!”

He freezes.

That was not you. That didn’t sound like you at all.

That was their baby. Mini you. Mini baby you. In her little oak crib, eagerly bobbing up and down on her chubby knees- the door wide open with a direct view of papa constructing mama’s new project. Sweet girl has been mimicking them both ever since she uttered out her first ‘mama!’

“…Oh.” His inhale is exhilaratingly long, “Oho.”

“…Shit!!”

“Okay, NO—” He’s already sprinting to the nursery, vanity already at the back of his mind, “Noooo. Don’t say that. Please. I beg of you. Mana is going to murder me. Can you say ‘mama’? or better yet, ‘dada?’ Dada? Please say dada.”

“SHIT!” She squeals happily, flapping her pudgy hands up and down excitedly, proud that she learnt a new word.

“WHY-”

His blood pressure heightens when he feels a presence behind him. He gulps. He’s faced curses that have levelled towers, have eaten people for fun. He’s faced the higherups squawking of systemically approaches. He’s even faced Nanami’s long speeches about taxes.

But this?

This is what he fears the most.

His pregnant wife. With a wooden spoon batting up and down in your hand- the tip dripping with his favourite curry sauce. Impending doom awaiting for him.

“‘Toru.”

He heaves a sob, “It’s not what it looks like. Please.”

“SHIIIIT!!”

the ladle in your grip stiffens its motions, but then you continue to stir the thick, soupy combination of chicken stock and garlic.

“Ooooi…”

The most important part of tonight’s dinner- the sauce of the katsu curry. Actually, close to first. Probably second. The chicken cutlets you’ve managed to bargain for a greater price at the markets lies at the counter beaming at you with intense interest—

“Hey!”

poke-poke-poke. A menacing finger is jabbed at your shoulder from behind before frosty white tips come to tickle the side of your cheeks as soon as your husband chin is placed upon the delicate curve of your shoulder.

“…I thought I put you on bed arrest.” Right. You were put on bed arrest since you had put the baby to bed last night. The trials and tribulations of having a baby were a long process, but in the end- you managed to snooze out at four in the morning. Upon hearing about the news that you’d casually mentioned when you served him a cup of coffee- his face dropped in horror and since this morning… he’s implemented the act of putting you on bed arrest.

And yes, he has followed you around the house to further ensure that you had gotten rest.

A sigh escapes your lips, “Satoru, I’m fine. Let me just-”

“Nope!” He pops the p with full emphasis, effectively cronking the temp down to zero before dragging you away from the stove.

“But—”

“No ‘buts,’ missy,” he sing-songs, grin sharpening. “Unless you’re referring to mine, in which case- hard agree. Spectacular asset. Moving on.”

You barely have any time to register the fact that you are back in your shared bed- plopped right in the soft fluffy blankets that hit your back gently. He rolls you into a blanket burrito- trapping you effectively, before pulling out his phone and snapping evidence of his mischief.

“Need to document this,” He mumbles, his fingers padding against the keyboard with lightning speed, “Caption: wife of the famous Gojo Satoru known commonly as sexiest-lady-on-earth faces harsh punishment of the blanket burrito due to breaking the law implemented for her to rest…”

When you’ve dozed off like a sleepy kitten buried in the furs of the blankets- chubby limbs pad against the floor before a pudgy hand tugs at Satoru’s pants. With a delighted hum, he hoists their daughter on his hip, allowing her to peek at your snoozing form.

“Mamamama?” She babbles, pointing her roll of a finger at your snoozing form. Satoru grins.

“Mhm. That’s mama. And mama?” He smacks a smooch on her chubby cheek, “Needs nap time. Just like how you-” Sniffle-sniffle…He scrunches his nose, “Need a bath. Pronto.”