“How many do you think is too many?” Is a too dangerous question to ask a greedy man like Satoru Gojo.
He’d keep you knocked up for as long as you’d allow it, and if you do allow it— for years to come, one after another. I just know he wants a huuuuge family, so many babies, as many as you’ll give him.
Gets to a point where your second daughter who’s no older than two gets confused when you’re not pregnant for once.
She clambers up the couch onto your lap, her tiny hands pawing at your stomach. And then she lifts the hem of your shirt, ducking her small head under, and then out, and then under again. A childlike concern furrows her wispy brows as she looks to you. “Mama, your tummy gone!”
Her innocent fretting warrants a surprised huff of laughter from you, but from across the living room, it cues a scheming, wickedly thrilled look from your husband.
He himself trudges over, lifting his legs high with every step as two of your other children clung to each of his calves like koalas to a tree trunk, squealing joyfully as he hauled them along.
There’s a genuinely bright grin as he lifts your daughter from your lap, the little girl beaming and giggling when he blew raspberries into her cheek.
“D’aww don’t look so frowny, cupcake,” He cooed as he lifted her overhead, sitting the now smiley girl atop his shoulders. All three of your littles were now tugging at some part of him with cheery expressions, whether it be his pants, shirt, or hair as he affirmed, “Mama’s tummy’ll come back.”
Satoru’s eyes shift to you now with a devious and knowing glint, loaded with implications that only you and him are privy to as he slyly adds, “won’t it, Mama?”
