mr. pickles, the dignified maine coon who had long accepted his fate as a regular at the vet, took his check-ups with the quiet resignation of a war veteran. his ears flicked at the cold of the stethoscope, his tail swished when his belly was poked, but otherwise, he was a picture of patience. remarkably, for a cat of his advanced years, his medical results were pristine. the vet, in sheer awe, even called him "a marvel of feline genetics"—though sukuna grumbled under his breath that it just meant the furball was too stubborn to kick the bucket.

baby, on the other hand, was a walking health hazard. where mr. pickles was a refined housecat who demanded fresh meals and pristine litter conditions, baby was a feral gremlin in the body of a domestic tabby. this was a cat that had, at least once, been caught trying to gnaw on a discarded tire. his lifestyle—if it could be called that—was "youthful" at best, "grossly unhygienic" at worst. the vet, exhausted after trying to inspect him, simply wrote "?????" under his potential ailments because there was simply no telling what eldritch horrors lurked in his fur. at this point, baby had probably singlehandedly discovered a new species of lice.

but medical concerns aside, the true highlight of vet day wasn’t the check-ups. no, it was the spa day afterward.

the moment they returned home, babykuna whisked her beloved boys straight into the bathroom, where a full-blown feline luxury treatment awaited. they were shampooed, conditioned, and towel-dried like royalty—though baby did his best to convince everyone he was being waterboarded the entire time. when they emerged from the bathroom, both cats were fluffed up like expensive rugs, their fur cleaner than it had ever been. baby, despite his protests, smelled like fresh lavender instead of whatever unholy mix of motor oil and dirt he’d been previously marinating in.

but the real cherry on top was the styling session.

mr. pickles, being the noble creature he was, tolerated this part with a dignified air. his fur was gently trimmed in a way that framed his face, and even his whiskers got the lightest touch-up—just enough to appease his tiny owner. a small bow was delicately placed on his collar, a mark of his undeniable seniority in the household. he looked like a wise old professor, the type to lecture other cats about the "good old days" when food didn’t come from cans but was hunted with claws and cunning.

baby, on the other hand, was made to suffer.

his fur, already a wild mess, was combed into submission before babykuna decided that he too deserved a bow. however, unlike mr. pickles’ refined little accessory, baby’s was a full-blown, oversized pink ribbon, positioned right at the top of his head like he was some kind of tragic beauty pageant contestant. the sheer offense on his face was unmatched. if looks could kill, babykuna would have been vaporized on the spot.

when sukuna entered post-session, arms crossed and already expecting some level of nonsense, he was greeted with the sight of two completely different levels of feline acceptance.

mr. pickles sat tall, his mane glossy, his whiskers subtly shaped—if anything, he looked rather pleased with himself. he was exuding "distinguished gentleman" energy, a cat who would sit on a velvet throne and demand tribute. baby, meanwhile, sat stiff as a board, the pink ribbon slipping slightly to the side, his eyes holding the thousand-yard stare of someone who had seen too much.

sukuna snorted. "why the hell does baby look like he just lost a bet?"

babykuna, utterly delighted with her work, beamed up at him. "doesn't he look sooo cute?!"

the first time you found toji huddled in your shared room, it was well past his usual working hours. considering he’d only dragged himself home at 4am the previous night, you figured exhaustion had finally caught up to him. toji was not the type to stop moving. ever.  “tired?” you asked gently. 

he looked up, smirking. “nah. retired.” 

your jaw dropped. retired? as in permanently? the man who treated work like a full-contact sport? but no joke followed. he was serious. you didn’t think you’d ever been happier in your entire life. 

toji laughed at your dumbfounded expression before pulling you into his ridiculous bear hug. “you’re stuck with me now, sweetheart.”

the first time you found geto huddled in your shared room, your heart sank. geto huddling was a bad sign. you thought he was doing okay, considering everything — therapy sessions, reconnecting with friends, the works. but then you noticed what he was holding. 

a single strand of hair. 

his hair. 

“it’s broken,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the offending strand. “this means split ends, doesn’t it?” 

you sighed. his depression wasn’t back; his vanity was. 

“great. just great,” he sighed dramatically, retreating further into his silk pillow cave. you left him to mourn in peace.

the first time you found gojo huddled in your shared room, you didn’t panic — you assumed he was trying to weasel his way out of work. which, frankly, was strange, given how much he adored tormenting his students with nonsensical training exercises. but when you walked in, the room was a battlefield. 

wrappers. so many wrappers. 

chocolates, gummies, cookies, things you weren’t even sure were technically edible. gojo lay in the middle of it, like some sugary war general, twirling a lollipop stick between his fingers. “self-care, babe,” he said with a grin, crumbs everywhere.

you left him to it, but not before muttering about how cleaning up was also self-care.

the first time you found nanami huddled in your shared room, you almost called an ambulance. huddling wasn’t exactly his thing. was he sick? dying? both? your mind raced through scenarios of him stoically hiding a terminal illness because “it’s not proper to trouble others.” but as you cautiously approached, ready to demand answers, you noticed the makeshift fort he’d built from your shared bedding. not just that — he’d constructed a fortress of books, an outright barricade. he looked up from his current read, glasses perched on his nose, and said, “it’s my day off.” 

oh. that was anticlimactic. turns out, nanami decompresses by becoming a literature troll.

raising four kids was no joke, but you and choso had somehow mastered the art of controlled chaos. your two sets of twins — yes, two, because the kamo genes clearly had a thing for balance — were the living proof of that. the older twin boys were forces of nature, a perfect blend of talent and unshakable confidence, while the younger twin girls had inherited their father’s quiet intensity, which made them intimidating by default.

gymnastics had been a surprise addition to the list of sports your boys excelled at. not that you doubted their ability, but with how aggressively they tackled every other sport — basketball, ice hockey, track — you hadn't expected them to have the grace required for floor routines and balance beams. yet, there they were, flipping through the air with the same ease they had when dunking a basketball.

"not gonna lie, i'm impressed," you mused, watching one of your sons land a perfect double backflip off the vault.

"naturally," choso nodded, arms crossed, looking every bit the proud father. "they have the best genes."

"bold statement for a man who can barely do a somersault," you teased.

choso frowned. "i can do a somersault."

"can and should are different things, babe."

meanwhile, the younger kamo twins sat a little ways off, watching their brothers with unreadable expressions. while their brothers were all about high-energy sports, the girls had taken a different approach — more calculated, more deliberate. people had learned quickly not to underestimate them.

"you guys wanna try gymnastics too?" you asked, leaning down slightly.

one of them — your youngest by exactly three minutes — gave you a look that could only be described as unimpressed. "no."

"why not? your brothers seem to enjoy it."

"because we like winning," the older twin stated plainly, as if that explained everything.

choso nodded approvingly. "makes sense."

"that doesn't explain anything," you pointed out.

"we like sports where we can directly beat other people," the younger one elaborated. "team sports. combat sports. gymnastics is great and all, but it’s about individual performance. there's no opponent to crush."

ah. that explained the ice hockey and basketball obsession.

your boys, overhearing the conversation, ran over to you. one of them draped an arm over his sister’s shoulders. "you guys don’t know what you're missing. gymnastics is dope."

"dope, but not violent enough," the older twin girl deadpanned.

"not violent enough? did you miss the part where i could break my neck doing this?" he gestured wildly to the high bars.

"self-inflicted injury doesn’t count," she replied smoothly. choso covered his mouth with his hand, pretending to cough to hide his laughter. you, on the other hand, had no such restraint. "they got you there, baby."

your son scowled but didn’t argue because he knew better. instead, he turned to his brother for backup. "bro, back me up here."

"nah, they got you there."

the betrayed look on his face sent you into another fit of laughter.

"anyway," the younger twin girl continued, unfazed, "i think it's cool you guys do gymnastics. but it’s not for us."

"fair enough," your son conceded, ruffling her hair.

you’ve always considered sukuna to be a force of nature — unshakable, terrifying, a walking calamity wrapped in arrogance and muscle. but nothing, nothing could have prepared you for the sight before you now.

there he is, your mighty, cruel, and insufferably smug demon of a boyfriend, crouched on the floor in front of your cat, his expression more serious than when he’s contemplating mass destruction.

“i don’t get you,” sukuna mutters, arms resting on his knees as he stares at the feline, who sits primly on the floor, tail flicking lazily. “you’re small. your head is tiny. you have no claws worth a damn, and yet you strut around like you own this place.”

your cat turns to look at him slowly. the audacity.

“oh, so now you’re being mysterious? yeah, real intimidating, runt,” sukuna scoffs, leaning in. “tell me, why the hell do you scream at five in the morning for no reason?”

your cat meows. sukuna nods, as if that was an actual answer.

“nah, i don’t buy it. i know when someone’s bullshitting me.” he strokes his chin, as if deep in thought. “and what’s with the scratching? you have a whole damn tree to tear up, but no, it’s gotta be the couch, huh? or my chair. my throne in this shitty modern world.”

your cat remains utterly unfazed, licking a paw and dragging it over its ear. sukuna clicks his tongue in frustration.

“you think you’re untouchable. you think you can do whatever you want just ‘cause you’re small and cute?” he narrows his eyes. “you remind me of someone.”

you narrow your eyes right back from your hiding spot behind the doorway. excuse me?

but sukuna is too deep in his investigation to notice. he gestures toward your phone lying face-down on the table. “and what’s with your vendetta against cameras? huh? every time there’s a flash, you go feral. you act like you’re being dragged to hell.”

your cat’s ears twitch. a clear tell.

“ohhhh,” sukuna smirks, leaning in like he’s caught onto something juicy. “what, you got a dark past? you some kinda criminal? don’t want your face out there ‘cause you’re on a hit list?”

the cat swipes at sukuna’s knee, and he actually pulls back with a scoff. “oi, don’t get violent with me, brat. i asked a simple question.”

you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing. 

“i should make you my disciple,” sukuna suddenly muses, tilting his head as he assesses the feline before him. “you got the attitude down. the little mind games. yeah… you could be something great.”

your cat sneezes. sukuna frowns, as if personally offended. “...you’re turning down my offer? just like that?”

he sits back with a dramatic sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “unbelievable. you’re worse than your owner.”

excuse me again???

before you can march in and object, your cat gets up, stretches leisurely, and then — just to really assert dominance — turns around and sticks its tail right in sukuna’s face before trotting off.

he stares after it, jaw clenched, eye twitching.

“…i’m gonna eat it.”

you finally lose the battle against your laughter.

nanami in his crisp suit, looking every bit the no-nonsense salaryman, only for his pant leg to shift just enough to reveal socks with tiny cartoon shrimp or dancing frogs. nobody dares to mention it — not because they’re scared of him, but because the sheer contrast between his usual demeanor and his sock choices is too much to process.

if someone does manage to bring it up, maybe an unsuspecting junior at work, nanami just pushes up his glasses and deadpans, "my spouse bought these for me." as if that explains everything. and, honestly? it does.

your bathroom is a fortress of beauty. an empire built on hydration, nourishment, and glow.

it started out simple — your body wash, a few lotions, maybe a nice scrub. then, suguru moved in, and suddenly, every known hair product to mankind had taken residence. deep conditioners, curl creams, serums, scalp oils, mystical potions that looked like they were extracted from the fountain of youth.

the balance? 50/50. suguru had haircare dominance, and you reigned supreme over bodycare.

but that balance was now under threat. because one of your body washes was disappearing at an alarming rate.

"what the fuck," you muttered, staring at the nearly empty bottle of your $30 vanilla bourbon body wash that you were absolutely sure had been full last week. you turned, eyes narrowed at the shelves — your shelves — lined with lotions, creams, exfoliators, butters, and at least five different types of shower oils.

then, across the room, were suguru’s shelves. shelves he personally built because his hair products started overflowing onto your side.

multiple hair masks from brands only spoken of in whispers

serums that claimed to revive the soul, not just the scalp

a lineup of conditioners so potent they should be classified as performance-enhancing drugs

curl creams in glass bottles, because suguru insisted “plastic is beneath my hair”

a wooden comb set that cost as much as rent

so, with everything at his disposal, why was your husband suddenly dipping into your inventory?

you set the bottle down, deep in thought. there were only two suspects.

birthdays are a special occasion, but when it’s your fiancé geto’s birthday, it’s a full-blown event. gifts? top-tier. dinner? already reserved at his favorite restaurant. romance? obviously. however, this year, geto had one specific request that turned the night into a logistical nightmare.

he wanted to bring satoru.

not his best friend satoru, but your ridiculously white, obnoxiously spoiled retriever — who, to no one’s surprise, also had bright blue eyes and a penchant for stealing your fiancé’s attention whenever possible.

"he's a part of the family," geto had reasoned earlier that day, scratching satoru behind the ears as the dog dramatically collapsed into his lap. "and he loves me."

"he loves inconveniencing me," you muttered, watching satoru flop over with a huff. geto smirked. "sounds familiar."

and that’s how you ended up at dinner date night with geto and your 75-pound, attention-seeking furry third wheel sitting at your feet, dressed in a stupid little bow tie geto had personally picked out.

the night started fine. candles, good wine, romantic atmosphere. suguru, as always, looked unfairly good in a dark button-up, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back but with a few strands loose. it should’ve been the perfect evening. should’ve. but satoru had other plans.

as soon as your food arrived, you felt it — a large, furry weight leaning against geto's chair. 

you glared. "satoru."

the dog stared back with an air that can only be classified as unbothered.

self-care sundays with your fiancé suguru are an event. they require extensive planning, a dedicated budget (suguru’s black card), and, most importantly, the unwavering commitment to looking unreasonably good while doing absolutely nothing.

the setup is pristine: warm candlelight flickering on the dresser, a bluetooth speaker playing kali uchis like it’s a sacred ritual, and your bed covered in self-care products. you’re both dressed in matching cow-print pajamas, a last-minute online impulse buy that suguru pretended to be unimpressed with but now wears with a very unserious level of smugness.

“ready?” you ask, holding up a jar of an expensive face mask. suguru hums, arms crossed. “depends. is this the one that tingles, or the one that smells like an overpriced smoothie?”

“the latter,” you assure him, unscrewing the lid. “but we’re double-masking today, so you’ll get to experience both.”

his dramatic sigh is muffled when you smear the cold mask over his face. suguru, being the effortlessly attractive menace that he is, somehow still looks good—even with streaks of green goop on his cheeks. he doesn’t even flinch, seasoned veteran that he is.

“i see you got everything from the list,” you say, reaching for the body butter.

“of course. do you think i’d let you down?” he grins, stretching out his legs as he watches you. “i was a man on a mission at sephora. dodged at least five aggressive salespeople, flashed my wedding band to scare off a few flirts, and even walked out with my dignity intact.”

“that’s debatable,” you mutter, scooping out a generous amount of cream and rubbing it into your arms. 

“mama, why do you look sad when you look at me?”

the question hits you out of nowhere, tiny but heavy. you turn to see him staring at you, that same intense gaze that’s so familiar it aches. choso’s gaze, even if he doesn't realize it. “i don’t look sad,” you say, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “i look… happy.”

he scrunches his face in that curious way he always does, so thoughtful for a little boy. “but sometimes you cry when you look at me.”

you feel the breath leave your lungs, a shaky exhale that you try to cover with a cough. “i cry because… you remind me of someone very special.”

“who?” his small voice is quiet, innocent. he’s tilting his head now, curious and thoughtful, dark eyes so full of questions. “like a friend?”

you close your eyes, steadying yourself. how do you explain? “not just a friend… someone who loved you very much, more than anything.”

“like you love me?”

“yes,” you whisper, voice wavering. “just like i love you.”

he frowns, piecing something together. "was it papa?"

the word slips out of his mouth so naturally, so innocently, and it pierces straight through you. papa. he’s too young to remember him, to know the weight of that word, yet somehow, he still does.

“yeah, sweetheart,” you finally manage. “just like papa.”

“did he love me lots too?”

your heart breaks as you nod, brushing a hand over his hair. “so much, baby. he loved you more than the whole world.”

he smiles a little, thoughtful, like he’s holding onto something he’s just discovered. “i think i love him too, mama,” he murmurs. “even if i don’t remember him.”

and as he rests his head against you, you feel the ache in your chest soften, just a little, his heartbeat steady against yours — a reminder that a part of choso is still here, living on in this small, precious boy who carries him in ways he’ll never know.

You had half a mind thinking that Geto lost his way somewhere between the living room and the kitchen, because the scene that greeted you was nothing short of absurd.

There he sat, cross-legged on the floor in the middle of your cousin’s room, surrounded by a gaggle of preteens and teenagers who were all whispering, giggling, and arguing in overlapping chaos. And there, right in the center of it all, was your composed, too-polite-for-his-own-good husband, letting your cousins braid his hair with the patience of a saint and the confusion of a man who didn’t know how he ended up as a practice mannequin.

“No, no — you’re braiding too tight! His scalp’s gonna hurt!” one cousin scolded, batting another’s hands away.

“It’s fine,” Geto said quickly, even though his hair was being tugged in three different directions. “I can handle it.”

“You always say that,” the youngest one piped up, tongue sticking out as she looped a rubber band around the end of his braid, “but your face looks like you’re trying really hard not to cry.”

“I’m not crying,” he said calmly, blinking as a jasmine flower was tucked behind his ear. “Just… enduring.”

“See? Crying,” another cousin teased, collapsing into laughter.