he'd offered the finger as a formality. a courtesy. something for the baby to grip while he assessed whether her reflexes were developing at an marginal rate.

"watch," he said, lowering one enormous finger toward the baby's hands. "she has my grip. even now she—"

the baby grabbed his finger, yanked it toward her face, and bit down.

"—she," sukuna continued, a half-second too late to maintain any dignity, "is biting me."

sukuna's expression did not change. internally however, several alarms went off.

"...woman."

you didn't even look up from refolding the laundry. "yes?"

"your daughter is eating me."

"she's not eating you. she's gumming on you. it's a teething thing."

"she has applied her entire jaw to my finger."

"babies don't have much jaw strength, 'kuna."

"clearly," he said, "you have never had this jaw applied to you," and then immediately looked like he regretted phrasing it that way, because you finally looked up, eyebrows raised, and he had the distinct displeasure of watching you decide whether to comment.

you decided to comment.

"is the king of curses," you enunciated slowly, abandoning your folding "being overpowered by an infant with no teeth."

"she has some teeth."

"two." you quirked helpfully.

"two is sufficient," sukuna seethed, with the air of a man defending a strategic position that had already fallen 7 seconds ago "tell her to release me."

"she's your daughter. you tell her." a mischievous tilt on your lips as you suddenly found the laundry interesting again.

he looked down. the baby looked back up at him—entirely unbothered, delighted, his finger still firmly between her gums—and made a small happy noise around it, like she was settling in for the long haul.

"release," sukuna told her, in the same flat tone he used to order executions.

she did not release. red eyes much like her fathers staring right back at him.

"i said release, spawn."

she gnawed with feeling.

sukuna sat with this for a long moment. you watched him have, visibly, an entire internal negotiation with himself, the outcome of which was never actually in doubt.

"fine," he said at last, to no one. "fine—she may continue, briefly, as a — as a developmental exercise."

"sure."

"for her jaw."

"mhm."

"i'm doing this for her." he could sense the sarcasm in your tone.

"no totally, i get you."

he settled back, finger still very much occupied, four eyes fixed on the baby with an expression that — on anyone else — you would have called soft. on him you didn't say it out loud, because the one time you had, years ago, he'd denied it so aggressively he'd nearly set something on fire.

the baby drooled happily onto the king of curses' hand and made no further comment.

neither did he, for the better part of an hour.

sukuna big softie ok.

he'd offered the finger as a formality. a courtesy. something for the baby to grip while he assessed whether her reflexes were developing at an marginal rate.

"watch," he said, lowering one enormous finger toward the baby's hands. "she has my grip. even now she—"

the baby grabbed his finger, yanked it toward her face, and bit down.

"—she," sukuna continued, a half-second too late to maintain any dignity, "is biting me."

sukuna's expression did not change. internally however, several alarms went off.

"...woman."

you didn't even look up from refolding the laundry. "yes?"

"your daughter is eating me."

"she's not eating you. she's gumming on you. it's a teething thing."

"she has applied her entire jaw to my finger."

"babies don't have much jaw strength, 'kuna."

"clearly," he said, "you have never had this jaw applied to you," and then immediately looked like he regretted phrasing it that way, because you finally looked up, eyebrows raised, and he had the distinct displeasure of watching you decide whether to comment.

you decided to comment.

"is the king of curses," you enunciated slowly, abandoning your folding "being overpowered by an infant with no teeth."

"she has some teeth."

"two." you quirked helpfully.

"two is sufficient," sukuna seethed, with the air of a man defending a strategic position that had already fallen 7 seconds ago "tell her to release me."

"she's your daughter. you tell her." a mischievous tilt on your lips as you suddenly found the laundry interesting again.

he looked down. the baby looked back up at him—entirely unbothered, delighted, his finger still firmly between her gums—and made a small happy noise around it, like she was settling in for the long haul.

"release," sukuna told her, in the same flat tone he used to order executions.

she did not release. red eyes much like her fathers staring right back at him.

"i said release, spawn."

she gnawed with feeling.

sukuna sat with this for a long moment. you watched him have, visibly, an entire internal negotiation with himself, the outcome of which was never actually in doubt.

"fine," he said at last, to no one. "fine—she may continue, briefly, as a — as a developmental exercise."

"sure."

"for her jaw."

"mhm."

"i'm doing this for her." he could sense the sarcasm in your tone.

"no totally, i get you."

he settled back, finger still very much occupied, four eyes fixed on the baby with an expression that — on anyone else — you would have called soft. on him you didn't say it out loud, because the one time you had, years ago, he'd denied it so aggressively he'd nearly set something on fire.

the baby drooled happily onto the king of curses' hand and made no further comment.

neither did he, for the better part of an hour.

sukuna big softie ok.

he'd offered the finger as a formality. a courtesy. something for the baby to grip while he assessed whether her reflexes were developing at an marginal rate.

"watch," he said, lowering one enormous finger toward the baby's hands. "she has my grip. even now she—"

the baby grabbed his finger, yanked it toward her face, and bit down.

"—she," sukuna continued, a half-second too late to maintain any dignity, "is biting me."

sukuna's expression did not change. internally however, several alarms went off.

"...woman."

you didn't even look up from refolding the laundry. "yes?"

"your daughter is eating me."

"she's not eating you. she's gumming on you. it's a teething thing."

"she has applied her entire jaw to my finger."

"babies don't have much jaw strength, 'kuna."

"clearly," he said, "you have never had this jaw applied to you," and then immediately looked like he regretted phrasing it that way, because you finally looked up, eyebrows raised, and he had the distinct displeasure of watching you decide whether to comment.

you decided to comment.

"is the king of curses," you enunciated slowly, abandoning your folding "being overpowered by an infant with no teeth."

"she has some teeth."

"two." you quirked helpfully.

"two is sufficient," sukuna seethed, with the air of a man defending a strategic position that had already fallen 7 seconds ago "tell her to release me."

"she's your daughter. you tell her." a mischievous tilt on your lips as you suddenly found the laundry interesting again.

he looked down. the baby looked back up at him—entirely unbothered, delighted, his finger still firmly between her gums—and made a small happy noise around it, like she was settling in for the long haul.

"release," sukuna told her, in the same flat tone he used to order executions.

she did not release. red eyes much like her fathers staring right back at him.

"i said release, spawn."

she gnawed with feeling.

sukuna sat with this for a long moment. you watched him have, visibly, an entire internal negotiation with himself, the outcome of which was never actually in doubt.

"fine," he said at last, to no one. "fine—she may continue, briefly, as a — as a developmental exercise."

"sure."

"for her jaw."

"mhm."

"i'm doing this for her." he could sense the sarcasm in your tone.

"no totally, i get you."

he settled back, finger still very much occupied, four eyes fixed on the baby with an expression that — on anyone else — you would have called soft. on him you didn't say it out loud, because the one time you had, years ago, he'd denied it so aggressively he'd nearly set something on fire.

the baby drooled happily onto the king of curses' hand and made no further comment.

neither did he, for the better part of an hour.

sukuna big softie ok.

he'd offered the finger as a formality. a courtesy. something for the baby to grip while he assessed whether her reflexes were developing at an marginal rate.

"watch," he said, lowering one enormous finger toward the baby's hands. "she has my grip. even now she—"

the baby grabbed his finger, yanked it toward her face, and bit down.

"—she," sukuna continued, a half-second too late to maintain any dignity, "is biting me."

sukuna's expression did not change. internally however, several alarms went off.

"...woman."

you didn't even look up from refolding the laundry. "yes?"

"your daughter is eating me."

"she's not eating you. she's gumming on you. it's a teething thing."

"she has applied her entire jaw to my finger."

"babies don't have much jaw strength, 'kuna."

"clearly," he said, "you have never had this jaw applied to you," and then immediately looked like he regretted phrasing it that way, because you finally looked up, eyebrows raised, and he had the distinct displeasure of watching you decide whether to comment.

you decided to comment.

"is the king of curses," you enunciated slowly, abandoning your folding "being overpowered by an infant with no teeth."

"she has some teeth."

"two." you quirked helpfully.

"two is sufficient," sukuna seethed, with the air of a man defending a strategic position that had already fallen 7 seconds ago "tell her to release me."

"she's your daughter. you tell her." a mischievous tilt on your lips as you suddenly found the laundry interesting again.

he looked down. the baby looked back up at him—entirely unbothered, delighted, his finger still firmly between her gums—and made a small happy noise around it, like she was settling in for the long haul.

"release," sukuna told her, in the same flat tone he used to order executions.

she did not release. red eyes much like her fathers staring right back at him.

"i said release, spawn."

she gnawed with feeling.

sukuna sat with this for a long moment. you watched him have, visibly, an entire internal negotiation with himself, the outcome of which was never actually in doubt.

"fine," he said at last, to no one. "fine—she may continue, briefly, as a — as a developmental exercise."

"sure."

"for her jaw."

"mhm."

"i'm doing this for her." he could sense the sarcasm in your tone.

"no totally, i get you."

he settled back, finger still very much occupied, four eyes fixed on the baby with an expression that — on anyone else — you would have called soft. on him you didn't say it out loud, because the one time you had, years ago, he'd denied it so aggressively he'd nearly set something on fire.

the baby drooled happily onto the king of curses' hand and made no further comment.

neither did he, for the better part of an hour.

sukuna big softie ok.

he'd offered the finger as a formality. a courtesy. something for the baby to grip while he assessed whether her reflexes were developing at an marginal rate.

"watch," he said, lowering one enormous finger toward the baby's hands. "she has my grip. even now she—"

the baby grabbed his finger, yanked it toward her face, and bit down.

"—she," sukuna continued, a half-second too late to maintain any dignity, "is biting me."

sukuna's expression did not change. internally however, several alarms went off.

"...woman."

you didn't even look up from refolding the laundry. "yes?"

"your daughter is eating me."

"she's not eating you. she's gumming on you. it's a teething thing."

"she has applied her entire jaw to my finger."

"babies don't have much jaw strength, 'kuna."

"clearly," he said, "you have never had this jaw applied to you," and then immediately looked like he regretted phrasing it that way, because you finally looked up, eyebrows raised, and he had the distinct displeasure of watching you decide whether to comment.

you decided to comment.

"is the king of curses," you enunciated slowly, abandoning your folding "being overpowered by an infant with no teeth."

"she has some teeth."

"two." you quirked helpfully.

"two is sufficient," sukuna seethed, with the air of a man defending a strategic position that had already fallen 7 seconds ago "tell her to release me."

"she's your daughter. you tell her." a mischievous tilt on your lips as you suddenly found the laundry interesting again.

he looked down. the baby looked back up at him—entirely unbothered, delighted, his finger still firmly between her gums—and made a small happy noise around it, like she was settling in for the long haul.

"release," sukuna told her, in the same flat tone he used to order executions.

she did not release. red eyes much like her fathers staring right back at him.

"i said release, spawn."

she gnawed with feeling.

sukuna sat with this for a long moment. you watched him have, visibly, an entire internal negotiation with himself, the outcome of which was never actually in doubt.

"fine," he said at last, to no one. "fine—she may continue, briefly, as a — as a developmental exercise."

"sure."

"for her jaw."

"mhm."

"i'm doing this for her." he could sense the sarcasm in your tone.

"no totally, i get you."

he settled back, finger still very much occupied, four eyes fixed on the baby with an expression that — on anyone else — you would have called soft. on him you didn't say it out loud, because the one time you had, years ago, he'd denied it so aggressively he'd nearly set something on fire.

the baby drooled happily onto the king of curses' hand and made no further comment.

neither did he, for the better part of an hour.

sukuna big softie ok.

he'd offered the finger as a formality. a courtesy. something for the baby to grip while he assessed whether her reflexes were developing at an marginal rate.

"watch," he said, lowering one enormous finger toward the baby's hands. "she has my grip. even now she—"

the baby grabbed his finger, yanked it toward her face, and bit down.

"—she," sukuna continued, a half-second too late to maintain any dignity, "is biting me."

sukuna's expression did not change. internally however, several alarms went off.

"...woman."

you didn't even look up from refolding the laundry. "yes?"

"your daughter is eating me."

"she's not eating you. she's gumming on you. it's a teething thing."

"she has applied her entire jaw to my finger."

"babies don't have much jaw strength, 'kuna."

"clearly," he said, "you have never had this jaw applied to you," and then immediately looked like he regretted phrasing it that way, because you finally looked up, eyebrows raised, and he had the distinct displeasure of watching you decide whether to comment.

you decided to comment.

"is the king of curses," you enunciated slowly, abandoning your folding "being overpowered by an infant with no teeth."

"she has some teeth."

"two." you quirked helpfully.

"two is sufficient," sukuna seethed, with the air of a man defending a strategic position that had already fallen 7 seconds ago "tell her to release me."

"she's your daughter. you tell her." a mischievous tilt on your lips as you suddenly found the laundry interesting again.

he looked down. the baby looked back up at him—entirely unbothered, delighted, his finger still firmly between her gums—and made a small happy noise around it, like she was settling in for the long haul.

"release," sukuna told her, in the same flat tone he used to order executions.

she did not release. red eyes much like her fathers staring right back at him.

"i said release, spawn."

she gnawed with feeling.

sukuna sat with this for a long moment. you watched him have, visibly, an entire internal negotiation with himself, the outcome of which was never actually in doubt.

"fine," he said at last, to no one. "fine—she may continue, briefly, as a — as a developmental exercise."

"sure."

"for her jaw."

"mhm."

"i'm doing this for her." he could sense the sarcasm in your tone.

"no totally, i get you."

he settled back, finger still very much occupied, four eyes fixed on the baby with an expression that — on anyone else — you would have called soft. on him you didn't say it out loud, because the one time you had, years ago, he'd denied it so aggressively he'd nearly set something on fire.

the baby drooled happily onto the king of curses' hand and made no further comment.

neither did he, for the better part of an hour.

sukuna big softie ok.

he'd offered the finger as a formality. a courtesy. something for the baby to grip while he assessed whether her reflexes were developing at an marginal rate.

"watch," he said, lowering one enormous finger toward the baby's hands. "she has my grip. even now she—"

the baby grabbed his finger, yanked it toward her face, and bit down.

"—she," sukuna continued, a half-second too late to maintain any dignity, "is biting me."

sukuna's expression did not change. internally however, several alarms went off.

"...woman."

you didn't even look up from refolding the laundry. "yes?"

"your daughter is eating me."

"she's not eating you. she's gumming on you. it's a teething thing."

"she has applied her entire jaw to my finger."

"babies don't have much jaw strength, 'kuna."

"clearly," he said, "you have never had this jaw applied to you," and then immediately looked like he regretted phrasing it that way, because you finally looked up, eyebrows raised, and he had the distinct displeasure of watching you decide whether to comment.

you decided to comment.

"is the king of curses," you enunciated slowly, abandoning your folding "being overpowered by an infant with no teeth."

"she has some teeth."

"two." you quirked helpfully.

"two is sufficient," sukuna seethed, with the air of a man defending a strategic position that had already fallen 7 seconds ago "tell her to release me."

"she's your daughter. you tell her." a mischievous tilt on your lips as you suddenly found the laundry interesting again.

he looked down. the baby looked back up at him—entirely unbothered, delighted, his finger still firmly between her gums—and made a small happy noise around it, like she was settling in for the long haul.

"release," sukuna told her, in the same flat tone he used to order executions.

she did not release. red eyes much like her fathers staring right back at him.

"i said release, spawn."

she gnawed with feeling.

sukuna sat with this for a long moment. you watched him have, visibly, an entire internal negotiation with himself, the outcome of which was never actually in doubt.

"fine," he said at last, to no one. "fine—she may continue, briefly, as a — as a developmental exercise."

"sure."

"for her jaw."

"mhm."

"i'm doing this for her." he could sense the sarcasm in your tone.

"no totally, i get you."

he settled back, finger still very much occupied, four eyes fixed on the baby with an expression that — on anyone else — you would have called soft. on him you didn't say it out loud, because the one time you had, years ago, he'd denied it so aggressively he'd nearly set something on fire.

the baby drooled happily onto the king of curses' hand and made no further comment.

neither did he, for the better part of an hour.

sukuna big softie ok.

he'd offered the finger as a formality. a courtesy. something for the baby to grip while he assessed whether her reflexes were developing at an marginal rate.

"watch," he said, lowering one enormous finger toward the baby's hands. "she has my grip. even now she—"

the baby grabbed his finger, yanked it toward her face, and bit down.

"—she," sukuna continued, a half-second too late to maintain any dignity, "is biting me."

sukuna's expression did not change. internally however, several alarms went off.

"...woman."

you didn't even look up from refolding the laundry. "yes?"

"your daughter is eating me."

"she's not eating you. she's gumming on you. it's a teething thing."

"she has applied her entire jaw to my finger."

"babies don't have much jaw strength, 'kuna."

"clearly," he said, "you have never had this jaw applied to you," and then immediately looked like he regretted phrasing it that way, because you finally looked up, eyebrows raised, and he had the distinct displeasure of watching you decide whether to comment.

you decided to comment.

"is the king of curses," you enunciated slowly, abandoning your folding "being overpowered by an infant with no teeth."

"she has some teeth."

"two." you quirked helpfully.

"two is sufficient," sukuna seethed, with the air of a man defending a strategic position that had already fallen 7 seconds ago "tell her to release me."

"she's your daughter. you tell her." a mischievous tilt on your lips as you suddenly found the laundry interesting again.

he looked down. the baby looked back up at him—entirely unbothered, delighted, his finger still firmly between her gums—and made a small happy noise around it, like she was settling in for the long haul.

"release," sukuna told her, in the same flat tone he used to order executions.

she did not release. red eyes much like her fathers staring right back at him.

"i said release, spawn."

she gnawed with feeling.

sukuna sat with this for a long moment. you watched him have, visibly, an entire internal negotiation with himself, the outcome of which was never actually in doubt.

"fine," he said at last, to no one. "fine—she may continue, briefly, as a — as a developmental exercise."

"sure."

"for her jaw."

"mhm."

"i'm doing this for her." he could sense the sarcasm in your tone.

"no totally, i get you."

he settled back, finger still very much occupied, four eyes fixed on the baby with an expression that — on anyone else — you would have called soft. on him you didn't say it out loud, because the one time you had, years ago, he'd denied it so aggressively he'd nearly set something on fire.

the baby drooled happily onto the king of curses' hand and made no further comment.

neither did he, for the better part of an hour.

sukuna big softie ok.

it's started since she was in the womb.

he's tried biting your four month pregnant belly because he had a vision and a man like satoru gojo with a vision is not a futile man.

"—but she's just so cute in there!" he had said, after getting a heated slap across the face when he had started munching on your skin.

you would have expected his antics to die down after you had given birth.

—lo and behold—it had only gotten worse.

which brings you back two months ago, when your daughter had been two months and still so small, so fragile and so very cute.

and two months ago, you had made satoru change her diaper for the first time. you had instructed him of course—

"—aren't you a poopy little baby? yes you are! look at you—!" he had said after successfully struggling with the diapers, poking her chonky stomach while the strongest sorcerer wrestled with the plastic wrapper of the diapers.

satoru's intellect about diapers was grating on your freshly postpartum self, not to mention his aggravating jokes about his so called 'poopy' baby.

"satoru—change her damn diapers."

"yes ma'am."

which now brings you to the present, where he's less useless about opening diapers,

—and more enthusiastic about biting his daughter.

"oh—look at you!," satoru squeals like he isn't 28 with a wife and a daughter and a formidable reputation to maintain. he kisses his white-haired darling clad in a onesie that matches the colour of her eyes, sapphire-blue, just like her lunatic father.

he kisses her cheeks repetitively, the rosy and pallor cheeks he loves softly biting while she claps her even chunkier hands across his face, a cherub smiles running across her face as her father continues ambushing her with kisses.

"look at those obese legs—" satoru softly pokes his daughter's bow legged legs, softly kissing it.

"satoru stop calling her obese, she's four months old."

"mmf— aren't you just the cutest" he manages to muffle out while he squeezes your daughter against him, eliciting squeal of laughter and joy from the both of them.

all you hear is joy.

it's started since she was in the womb.

he's tried biting your four month pregnant belly because he had a vision and a man like satoru gojo with a vision is not a futile man.

"—but she's just so cute in there!" he had said, after getting a heated slap across the face when he had started munching on your skin.

you would have expected his antics to die down after you had given birth.

—lo and behold—it had only gotten worse.

which brings you back two months ago, when your daughter had been two months and still so small, so fragile and so very cute.

and two months ago, you had made satoru change her diaper for the first time. you had instructed him of course—

"—aren't you a poopy little baby? yes you are! look at you—!" he had said after successfully struggling with the diapers, poking her chonky stomach while the strongest sorcerer wrestled with the plastic wrapper of the diapers.

satoru's intellect about diapers was grating on your freshly postpartum self, not to mention his aggravating jokes about his so called 'poopy' baby.

"satoru—change her damn diapers."

"yes ma'am."

which now brings you to the present, where he's less useless about opening diapers,

—and more enthusiastic about biting his daughter.

"oh—look at you!," satoru squeals like he isn't 28 with a wife and a daughter and a formidable reputation to maintain. he kisses his white-haired darling clad in a onesie that matches the colour of her eyes, sapphire-blue, just like her lunatic father.

he kisses her cheeks repetitively, the rosy and pallor cheeks he loves softly biting while she claps her even chunkier hands across his face, a cherub smiles running across her face as her father continues ambushing her with kisses.

"look at those obese legs—" satoru softly pokes his daughter's bow legged legs, softly kissing it.

"satoru stop calling her obese, she's four months old."

"mmf— aren't you just the cutest" he manages to muffle out while he squeezes your daughter against him, eliciting squeal of laughter and joy from the both of them.

all you hear is joy.

it's started since she was in the womb.

he's tried biting your four month pregnant belly because he had a vision and a man like satoru gojo with a vision is not a futile man.

"—but she's just so cute in there!" he had said, after getting a heated slap across the face when he had started munching on your skin.

you would have expected his antics to die down after you had given birth.

—lo and behold—it had only gotten worse.

which brings you back two months ago, when your daughter had been two months and still so small, so fragile and so very cute.

and two months ago, you had made satoru change her diaper for the first time. you had instructed him of course—

"—aren't you a poopy little baby? yes you are! look at you—!" he had said after successfully struggling with the diapers, poking her chonky stomach while the strongest sorcerer wrestled with the plastic wrapper of the diapers.

satoru's intellect about diapers was grating on your freshly postpartum self, not to mention his aggravating jokes about his so called 'poopy' baby.

"satoru—change her damn diapers."

"yes ma'am."

which now brings you to the present, where he's less useless about opening diapers,

—and more enthusiastic about biting his daughter.

"oh—look at you!," satoru squeals like he isn't 28 with a wife and a daughter and a formidable reputation to maintain. he kisses his white-haired darling clad in a onesie that matches the colour of her eyes, sapphire-blue, just like her lunatic father.

he kisses her cheeks repetitively, the rosy and pallor cheeks he loves softly biting while she claps her even chunkier hands across his face, a cherub smiles running across her face as her father continues ambushing her with kisses.

"look at those obese legs—" satoru softly pokes his daughter's bow legged legs, softly kissing it.

"satoru stop calling her obese, she's four months old."

"mmf— aren't you just the cutest" he manages to muffle out while he squeezes your daughter against him, eliciting squeal of laughter and joy from the both of them.

all you hear is joy.

it's started since she was in the womb.

he's tried biting your four month pregnant belly because he had a vision and a man like satoru gojo with a vision is not a futile man.

"—but she's just so cute in there!" he had said, after getting a heated slap across the face when he had started munching on your skin.

you would have expected his antics to die down after you had given birth.

—lo and behold—it had only gotten worse.

which brings you back two months ago, when your daughter had been two months and still so small, so fragile and so very cute.

and two months ago, you had made satoru change her diaper for the first time. you had instructed him of course—

"—aren't you a poopy little baby? yes you are! look at you—!" he had said after successfully struggling with the diapers, poking her chonky stomach while the strongest sorcerer wrestled with the plastic wrapper of the diapers.

satoru's intellect about diapers was grating on your freshly postpartum self, not to mention his aggravating jokes about his so called 'poopy' baby.

"satoru—change her damn diapers."

"yes ma'am."

which now brings you to the present, where he's less useless about opening diapers,

—and more enthusiastic about biting his daughter.

"oh—look at you!," satoru squeals like he isn't 28 with a wife and a daughter and a formidable reputation to maintain. he kisses his white-haired darling clad in a onesie that matches the colour of her eyes, sapphire-blue, just like her lunatic father.

he kisses her cheeks repetitively, the rosy and pallor cheeks he loves softly biting while she claps her even chunkier hands across his face, a cherub smiles running across her face as her father continues ambushing her with kisses.

"look at those obese legs—" satoru softly pokes his daughter's bow legged legs, softly kissing it.

"satoru stop calling her obese, she's four months old."

"mmf— aren't you just the cutest" he manages to muffle out while he squeezes your daughter against him, eliciting squeal of laughter and joy from the both of them.

all you hear is joy.

it's started since she was in the womb.

he's tried biting your four month pregnant belly because he had a vision and a man like satoru gojo with a vision is not a futile man.

"—but she's just so cute in there!" he had said, after getting a heated slap across the face when he had started munching on your skin.

you would have expected his antics to die down after you had given birth.

—lo and behold—it had only gotten worse.

which brings you back two months ago, when your daughter had been two months and still so small, so fragile and so very cute.

and two months ago, you had made satoru change her diaper for the first time. you had instructed him of course—

"—aren't you a poopy little baby? yes you are! look at you—!" he had said after successfully struggling with the diapers, poking her chonky stomach while the strongest sorcerer wrestled with the plastic wrapper of the diapers.

satoru's intellect about diapers was grating on your freshly postpartum self, not to mention his aggravating jokes about his so called 'poopy' baby.

"satoru—change her damn diapers."

"yes ma'am."

which now brings you to the present, where he's less useless about opening diapers,

—and more enthusiastic about biting his daughter.

"oh—look at you!," satoru squeals like he isn't 28 with a wife and a daughter and a formidable reputation to maintain. he kisses his white-haired darling clad in a onesie that matches the colour of her eyes, sapphire-blue, just like her lunatic father.

he kisses her cheeks repetitively, the rosy and pallor cheeks he loves softly biting while she claps her even chunkier hands across his face, a cherub smiles running across her face as her father continues ambushing her with kisses.

"look at those obese legs—" satoru softly pokes his daughter's bow legged legs, softly kissing it.

"satoru stop calling her obese, she's four months old."

"mmf— aren't you just the cutest" he manages to muffle out while he squeezes your daughter against him, eliciting squeal of laughter and joy from the both of them.

all you hear is joy.

it's three in the morning when both of them start crying at the same time.

not one and then the other, both—simultaneously.

you're already stirring when sukuna's hand lands briefly on your shoulder, not gentle exactly—but firm. like he means for you to stay.

you watch him shuffle out of the tangled sheets, almost like the man knows what he's doing, which he does.

—he stands over their bedding for a moment, looking down at two screaming calamities ribboned in silk—like he's assessing a mildly irritating military situation.

then he picks them both up.

no hesitation lingers in the way he has them, one per arm, settled against his chest like he's done it a thousand times, because he has, because apparently this is who ryomen sukuna—king of curses—is now and he has made his peace with it privately and without comment.

—and with something he dare not call love.

your son is louder. your daughter is more indignant—together they are, objectively, a lot.

"—the both of you," sukuna says flatly, beginning to pace around with the bundles. "—are doing this on purpose."

your son wails.

"i see."

you lean against the doorframe and watch him pace the length of the room in the dim lamplight—four eyes forward, jaw set, two babies—or calamities as he calls it, pressed to his chest like he was built for this.

—maybe he was.

he adjusts his hold on your daughter without looking, just—knows she's slipping and he corrects it. pulls her a little closer. his hand, huge against her tiny back, starts this slow unconscious pat that he definitely doesn't know he's doing.

thump. thump. thump.

your son hiccups, grabbing a fist of sukuna's robe and holds on.

sukuna looks down at him.

"how brave," he mutters. "—wailing and you're still feisty."

your son blinks at him with those red orbs much like his fathers.

—he grabs the robes tighter. sukuna ignores it.

"are you going to keep pretending you don't love them," you say softly from the doorway, "or."

sukuna doesn't look at you. he's doing the thing where he stares at a fixed point on the wall and acts like he's alone.

"i am not pretending anything," he says. "i am managing a situation."

"you're patting her back."

"..."

"temperature regulation."

you press your lips together so you don't audibly snicker. you cross the room anyway and fix the edge of your son's blanket where it's come loose, your hand brushing sukuna's arm as you do. he doesn't move away.

(he never moves away.)

by the time they settle — your son first, going boneless and slack-heavy with sleep, then your daughter following like she was only ever waiting for him to go first. sukuna is against the wall with both of them still in his arms.

he hasn't put them down.

you don't say anything about that. you just stand beside him, close enough that your shoulder finds his, and he doesn't comment on that either, which from sukuna is basically a standing ovation.

"you can put them down," you murmur, eyes darting up to meet your husbands, "they're asleep."

sukuna looks at your daughter's face. then your son's. then back at some indeterminate point across the room.

"i know," he says.

he doesn't put them down.

and he doesn't put them down for a long time.