Normally, Satoru Gojo doesn’t find himself in situations he refuses to be involved in. But as of now, at this moment right here—there seems to be a mishap. Especially with the way he’s presenting himself with a personality vastly uncanny.

“I-wha-hey!” Satoru wakes up to the sound of objects rattling. He isn’t sure what they are, but with an eye half open and his lids barely—it’s become clear he’s awoken on the wrong side of the bed. There are numerous toys on the ground, and a toddler shaking him vigorously.

“Papa! Papa!” The child says, cerulean skies sparkling as the man scowls at him. Eventually his gaze softens as a sigh leaves him, “fuck..” He facepalms himself internally, the comforter off of him in a split second.

He groggily gets off. “What's up, buddy?” He runs a hand through his disheveled hair, an unpleasant smell kicking him awake. Lo and behold, he got to see who instigated the punctuating odor—and his aggrieved state. “The fuck?” He murmurs to himself before pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Poopoo!” Amazing.

He twists his head to look over at your sleeping figure, thinking to himself. But the child is growing impatient, repeating the wretched word over and over again until he decides to handle things himself.

Satoru Gino could stomach a lot of things, but gosh... A human child is something else.

To better give you a picture of how he felt, it was an execrable melange of appalling marcid—like he’s run out of adjectives to describe it, like when he puts ‘etc’ on his essay cause he knows damn well he can’t think of any more examples.

. . .

“Gah! This baby thing is going to fuckin’ kill me.” Satoru now has his nostrils shut tight by a clothespin, slit-eyed and obstructing his ability to breathe.

Breathe in a smelly diaper.

Which was unfortunately the case.

Your slumber is peaceful, irenic until you turn around and don't pick up the feeling of two arms around your waist.

“Satoru?” You call for him, slowly sitting up to let your eyes roam around the room. The glory of weekend morning shines through the open windows, light spilling on the oak floor to reveal every texture and grain from your vision visible. “What?” His gruff voice greets you and you finally set your sight on him.

“What are you doing..?” A chuckle escapes your lips when it hits you—the view of him, shirtless, probably wrinkling his face in grimace at the sight points to one direction only. And it was a bad one.

He turns around and sets your toddler down on the floor, stomping over to you as he yawns.

“We still have time for morning cuddles, right?”

“Little brat had a surprise waiting for me. My morning isn't going well at all.” He says, crawling into bed beside you as you notice the marks on his nose. He looks up at you, a smile on his face while your hands cup his cheeks.

“Y'know what would make me feel better..?”