In a world ruled by cursed energy and powerful clans, two toddlers reigned supreme in the nursery: you and Gojo Satoru.

You — the chubby, beautiful firecracker — had the roundest cheeks in the estate, the grumpiest pout, and a walk that said “move.” Even the clan heads stepped aside when they heard the pitter-patter of your angry baby steps. Your tiny pigtails bounced like warning flags, and your baby kimono struggled to contain your sacred baby belly.

And then there was S’toru — Gojo Satoru, age: two and a half. Suspiciously tall for a baby. His snowy white hair was always falling into his crystal blue eyes, and his confidence was unreal. Other toddlers followed him like ducklings, but Gojo only followed one person:

You.

You were sitting under the sakura tree, cheeks puffed with mochi, stubby legs swinging above the tatami mat. You held your snack plate like a royal decree. Peace surrounded you. Until—

S’toru came toddling up with his signature grin, all eight baby teeth showing.

“Y/N-chaan,” he squeaked, eyes shining. “Dat fow me?”

You blinked. Then clutched your mochi tighter. “No. Mine.”

He pouted. “Pwease?”

You glared at him. “Nooo! I holded it fiwst!”

“But— but just a widdle nibboo?” he asked, inching closer.

Then—

He reached.

His soft baby fingers dared to touch your food. And without hesitation, your fat lil’ hand smacked him across his handsome, smol face.

“NO!!” you screeched. “BAD BABY, S’TORU!!”

Gojo froze. His mouth fell open. His big blue eyes welled up.

He looked like he was about to cry—

But instead… he wobbled forward and faceplanted into your belly, arms hugging your baby body.

“Otay…” he sniffled. “I still wuv you…”

You blinked, still fuming. Then grumbled, “Stinky baby…” and patted his hair with your mochi-sticky hand. You broke your mochi in half and shoved the squished piece toward his face.

He gasped like he was being proposed to. “Fank youuuu,” he whispered, hugging you tighter.

Nearby, two clan maids peeked from behind a pillar, teary-eyed.

“They’re gonna get married,” one sobbed.

“That baby boy gonna die for her one day,” the other whispered.

⸻

It should’ve ended there.

But then you remembered.

Your favorite bunny comb was gone. Gone. And you had heard that Gojo Satoru — your number one fan, your follower, your problem — had used it earlier… as a sword.

Your head slowly turned to look at him.

He was humming, happily munching on the mochi you gave him.

You snapped.

Your tiny chubby fists latched onto two handfuls of his snowy hair and yanked hard.

“YOUUUU TOOK MY C’OMB!!” you roared.

“WAHH— NOOOO Y/N-CHAN!!” he screamed, flailing like a startled bird. “I—I was battwin’ da evil pwayroom demons!!”

“YOU STOOPID SNOWY BABYYYY!!”

“I SAID SOWWYYYYY—!!”

From the garden, the maids gasped.

“HER ROYAL HIGHNESS HAS HIM BY THE ROOTS!”

“HE’S GONNA GO BALD!!”

In a flurry of silk and horror, they scrambled toward you. One scooped you up mid-yank, and you screamed, fists still full of Gojo hair. “I’MMA BITE HIS EAAAARRRR NEXTTTT!!”

Another maid cradled Gojo like a war victim, brushing his frizzed-up hair as he sniffled dramatically and clutched the chewed mochi like a security blanket.

“She’s so mean…” he whimpered. “But I still wuv her…”