Satoru Gojo had been through war zones of cursed energy, stared death in the face, and came out grinning. Yet somehow, sitting in a child-sized chair at this ridiculously serious parent-teacher conference, he felt genuinely outmatched.

The teacher, a tight-lipped woman clutching a clipboard like it was a life raft, sighed deeply. “Mr. Gojo, we need to talk about your daughters.”

He smirked. “I love talking about my daughters.”

She ignored his charm. “They are… quite demanding.”

“Strong women in the making.”

"They are pretty popular with boys." The teacher added. Gojo flashed her a charming , tooth shining grin. "Of-course they are. They got my genetics.” She adjusted her glasses. “They make the boys cry.”

Gojo blinked. “...Okay. I need details.”

She sighed again. “They refuse to associate with any boy who doesn’t meet their standards. One little boy shared his crayons, and Sora told him, ‘Try again, come back next time when you have a penthouse.’”

Gojo let out a sharp exhale through his nose, fighting back laughter. “That’s—”

“And when another boy tried to steal their crayons, Hana smacked him across the head.” The woman said pointing out.

Gojo definitely laughed at that. “Good girl.”

“Mr. Gojo.”

“Right, right. Violence is bad.” He waved it off. “Anything else?”

“They demand ‘princess treatment’ at snack time. They only accept expensive chocolates. And when asked where they learned this behavior, they said—” The teacher hesitated before reading directly from her notes. “‘Our mommy is the queen, and Daddy says she deserves everything. So we do, too.’”

Silence.

Gojo grinned, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Welp. Can’t argue with facts.”

Later that night, as you watched your daughters lounge in their princess pajamas, snacking on imported sweets, you gave Gojo a look.

“This is your fault,” you deadpanned.

He just sighed dramatically. Outnumbered. Outmatched. And so, so proud. You looked down at your kid's marks card.