" to be loved without proving you are worth the effort. to be held on ordinary days, when you have nothing pretty to offer. to sit in silence and know you are not being abandoned. to be reached for in the dark, not out of desire, but reassurance. to realize you are chosen, even when you are quiet, even when you are tired. that’s the kind of love people recognize in their chest before they have words for it . "
☁︎ 𝐀𝐳𝐚𝐢 .ᐟ | she ⭒ 20 ⭒ filo ⭒ infp | .𖥔 ݁ ˖
ᯓᡣ𐭩 jjk centric . she writes as if dreaming, and dreams as if writing . fluff for the tender moments, angst for what lingers . a good girl, devoted to satoru
⋆˚𝜗 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐕𝐄 . 𑣲 masterlist 𑣲 carrd
– do not copy, repost, or translate my work. i LOVE interactions so if u wanna be moots with me don't be shy, baby.
𝜗ৎ he has destroyed cities. today he survives a tea party
sukuna knew the exact moment things went wrong.
it was when the door shut behind you, the sound of your footsteps fading down the hall, and he was left standing in the living room with his arms crossed and his daughter staring up at him like a tiny tyrant assessing her next victim.
she smiled. slow, sweet, and dangerous.
“you’re babysitting me,” she announced, hands clasped behind her back, curls perfectly in place, dress pristine. a face that's porcelain and endearingly adorable.
“i’m supervising,” he corrected, already irritated. “you’re not an infant. don’t act like one.”
she tilted her head. studied him. then nodded, as if conceding a point no one else was part of.
“okay. you’re supervising.” a pause. “from the dollhouse.”
no.
he looked at the miniature setup on the floor. the pastel roof. the tiny furniture. the offensively small teacups. he felt something deep and ancient inside him recoil.
“no,” he said flatly.
the young one crouched anyway, smoothing out the rug inside the dollhouse with meticulous care. “princess needs her father.”
“i’m not playing this game.” he snapped.
she looked up. tilted her head. “but you’re the dad.”
he felt his chest tighten. that… was worse.
minutes later, the poor pink haired man was seated on the floor, back against the couch, one massive knee bent up while his daughter arranged dolls with surgical precision. he hadn’t moved voluntarily. it had been a slow, strategic defeat involving staring contests and a threat to cry loudly enough for the neighbors to hear.
he glared at the doll shoved into his hand.
“this thing is missing an arm.”
“she’s mysterious,” his daughter said. “now talk.”
“i’m not talking for it.”
her doe eyes narrowed. “you have to. it’s the rules.”
he scoffed. “i don’t follow rules made by plastic.”
she leaned closer, voice dropping into a dramatic whisper. “if you don’t, princess sparkleberry will be sad.”
princess sparkleberry.
sukuna closed his eyes. just for a second. long enough to regret every life choice that had led here.
“what does she want,” he muttered.
she beamed. victory, pure and absolute. “tea daddy, duhh. and you have to do the girl voice.”
silence.
“what.”
“the girl voice,” she repeated patiently, like he was the slow one. “high. nice. like this.” she demonstrated. perfect pitch. weaponized cuteness.
“no.”
“yes.”
“NO.”
she folded her arms, lifted her chin. the resemblance hit him like a curse. same posture. same look. same absolute certainty that the world would bend.
“okay,” she said, lips already wobbling, voice turning syrupy and dangerous. “then i’ll cry. and cry. and cry.” she sniffed, deliberately loud. “and i won’t stop.”
he growled under his breath. teeth clenched. every instinct screamed violence. not at her. never at her. at the universe for daring him like this.
he lifted the doll. held it between two fingers like it might explode.
“…hello,” he said, voice barely raised, flat and unimpressed.
she squinted. “higher.”
“i will throw this stupid thing into the sun.”
“no you won’t.”
she was right. that was the infuriating part.
he exhaled sharply through his nose, then pitched his voice up just enough to be unmistakably wrong. mocking. dry. a parody of cheer.
“hello,” he tried again. “i’m princess sparkleberry. i demand tea and respect,” a pause "and if you forget either, i'll burn your kingdom down."
her face lit up. “yes! she’s sassy.”
“i know,” he said darkly. “i can feel it.”
they played like that. his cute lil gremlin dictating elaborate domestic dramas. who lived where. who was offended. who needed rescuing. sukuna followed along with minimal effort, twisting every line into something sharp, sarcastic, and oddly… effective. the dolls ended up ruling kingdoms. enforcing laws and intimidating rivals. and gosh, his little miss diva approved of all of it.
at some point, she climbed into his side without asking, leaning against his arm while still holding court over the dollhouse. he stiffened instinctively, then forced himself to stay still. sukuna adjusted his arm slightly. a fraction closer. protective. controlled.
she looked up at him, half-lidded. “you’re good at this.”
he scoffed. “how dare you.”
her fingers curled into his sleeve anyway. he stayed there until you came back. long after the game ended. long after she fell asleep against him, clutching her precious one-hand princess sparkleberry like a treasured weapon.
when he heard your key in the door, he didn’t move her. didn’t need to. no one else was allowed to.
you come back quietly, keys barely whispering as the door clicks shut behind you. the living room is wrong. not destroyed. not bloody. just… wrong. your husband is on the floor. broad frame folded into the carpet like he’s been defeated by gravity itself. not wounded. not unconscious. something far more unthinkable. he’s surrounded.
your daughter is asleep against his side, her curls crushed into his chest, one tiny chubby hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt like she owns him. dolls ring him in a loose, plastic circle, their painted eyes fixed in silent judgment. one leans against his knee. another rests in his open palm. and at the center of it all, calm and untouchable, he looks like a king temporarily overthrown by pastel tyranny.
he notices you immediately. of course he does.
his red eyes lift to yours, sharp and warning, silently daring you to say anything.
you raise your hands anyway, palms out, nails catching the light. fresh. glossy. a color you know he hates because it draws attention.
“oh,” you murmur, smiling. “did I interrupt something important?”
he clicks his tongue, clearly irritated. “you walk in here flaunting those claws like you didn’t abandon me.”
“i was gone for an hour.”
“an hour too long, dammit.”
your gaze drops pointedly to the dolls. to the tiny tiara perched on one of them. to the faint smudge of glitter on his knuckle.
“…you look busy,” you say, voice teasing but soft, the kind that makes fun without ever being mean.
his jaw tightens. “if you laugh, i’ll kill you.” not literally, no.
you step closer, crouching just enough to admire the scene. “is that princess sparkleberry I see?”
his eye twitches. “she named it,” he says flatly. “i had no involvement.”
your daughter stirs in her sleep, brow knitting for a heartbeat before she nestles closer. sukuna doesn’t look down. he doesn’t have to. his arm shifts with quiet care, easing around her just enough to keep her steady, thumb brushing once against her sleeve before stilling. the touch is restrained, deliberate, and unmistakably gentle, like he’s handling something the world isn’t allowed to break.
you smile softer this time. warmer. “she looks happy.”
“she better,” he mutters. “I don’t humiliate myself for nothing.”
you reach out, brushing your thumb over his shoulder. he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t tell you to stop.
your nails gleam between you. “you know,” you say lightly, “we could match next time. me at the salon, you at… dollhouse court.”
he finally looks at you properly. slow and intense.
“don’t push your luck, woman.” he says. then, quieter, almost lost under his breath, “get her to bed before she wakes up and asks me to sing.”
you bite a laugh as you reach for your daughter, careful hands sliding under her back, lifting her with gentle ease. the little one stirs, brow knitting for a second before she settles again, nose pressing into your shoulder. one of her tiny fingers loosens from sukuna’s sleeve and catches on your collar instead.
he watches it happen. all of it. the way you instinctively adjust your hold, the way she fits against you like she was always meant to be there. something in his chest eases, slow and unfamiliar, like a tension finally allowed to rest. his mouth tilts, barely there, a quiet curve he doesn’t bother hiding. he lets himself feel it. just this once.
a.n. i love love loveee me some daddy sukuna's fics hsjshds and had fun writing this one, couldn't stop giggling n shi. i might post more girl dad kuna fics hehe
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. you try out the recent tiktok trend with your boyfriend: tricking him into holding his arms up for a so-called challenge, then surprising him with a kiss to see if he melts into it.
tags. gojo satoru, geto suguru, nanami kento, fushiguro toji, sukuna ryomen, kamo choso x reader (separate). fluff, suggestive themes. implied size difference. reader is called ‘baby, angel, sweetheart, brat, doll’ :: wc: 2.6k :: an: didn’t know if it started out as a challenge on tt but lets pretend it did
𝜗𝒞 GOJO SATORU
you’ve seen the trend blowing up on tiktok—girlfriends tricking their boyfriends into holding their arms up for some fake “challenge,” only to surprise them with a kiss and see if they’d melt into it.
with satoru, you figured it would be the perfect way to catch him off guard. he’s always the one teasing you, always so sure of himself, but you also know he’s a sucker for your affection. especially when you show it unexpectedly.
you set up your phone discreetly on the kitchen counter, propping it against a mug to capture the angle.
“okay, ‘toru,” you say casually and try to keep a straight face, “stand right here with your arms up like this—it’s for a challenge. don’t move, no matter what.”
satoru raises an eyebrow as that signature smirk of his tugs at his glossy lips. he complies easily and lifts his arms above his head in a dramatic way. his shirt rides up, revealing that sexy happy trail disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweatpants.
“a challenge, huh? y’know i never lose those,” satoru brags, a flash of excitement and amusement flashing in his bright blue eyes before they narrow playfully.
he can’t help but ramble on confidently as if he’s got it all figured out, “what’s the catch? are ya suddenly gonna tickle me or—”
before he can finish, you step forward. you cup his face and pull him down into a surprisingly gentle kiss. your plump lips press against his softly at first, as if testing the waters.
for a split second, you feel him freeze. a sign that his brain is probably trying to process the surprise. his cheeks flush a faint shade of pink as he gets a bit flustered by the gesture—a rare sight and one you cherish.
then, just like that, he . . . melts.
satoru’s arms drop instantly. one hand slides to the back of your head to hold onto your hair, keeping you close as he deepens the kiss. the other hand sneaks around your waist before playfully squeezing your ass. the touch pulls a gasp from you that he swallows with a low chuckle.
“mmh, sneaky little minx,” the white-haired man murmurs against your lips, his voice sultry and teasing. he fondles your curves shamelessly in the meantime. like he can’t get enough of you.
you pull back just enough to breathe, but he doesn’t let you go far. he nips at your bottom lip;
“oh? y’ think you can pull that on me and get away with it so easily?” satoru’s blue eyes sparkle with mischief, the flush fading but that cocky grin widening, “aht-aht, it’s my turn.”
your boyfriend spins you around to press your lower back against the counter as he kisses you again, slower this time, savoring it. his hand stays firm on your head and tilts you just right. the other explores and slides up your side before brushing against the undersides of your breasts.
the phone’s still recording, but you forget about it entirely. even more so when satoru pulls back just enough to whisper right against your parted mouth.
“i think we should keep this in the vid—let ‘em all see what my girl does to me.”
not giving you a chance to retort, he captures your lips in another kiss. this time it’s deeper and more intimate. a promise of more to come.
𝜗𝒞 GETO SUGURU
you position your phone on the living room shelf, hidden behind a plant for the perfect shot for this ‘challenge’ you want to do with your dear boyfriend.
“hey, sugu!” you call out innocently before waving him over, “come here for a sec. i need you to stand with your arms up like this—it’s a dumb challenge thing. just hold them up, okay?”
suguru, who’s been reading a book on the couch, curiously raises a brow. he puts a bookmark between the pages before standing up the second you call out for him. he walks over with a hand in his pocket.
your lover tilts his head at your beaming smile, dark strands of hair falling over his shoulder as he smirks ever so faintly. he knows you’re probably up to no good, but he indulges you without hesitation.
“alright. if you say so, angel,” suguru hums. he lifts his arms gracefully, muscles flexing under his loose shirt, “what’s the goal here? an endurance test?”
you don’t answer with words. instead, you close the distance between you by rising on your toes to capture his lips in an unexpected yet sweet kiss.
suguru pauses for a heartbeat. and then you feel it—the curve of his smile against your mouth. he doesn’t resist at all. he returns the kiss gently, his lips moving with yours in that warm and unhurried way that always makes your heart flutter.
his arms drop down slowly to wrap around your waist, palms resting against the small of your back. he pulls you closer and squeezes you to his chest in a tender embrace. it’s not forceful, just secure, like he’s enveloping you in his world.
“ah, you got me,” suguru murmurs into the kiss with an indulgent chuckle, voice laced with affection and amusement.
you deepen the kisses a little and he immediately matches your rhythm. one hand slides up your back to hold you steady while the other stays at your waist, his thumb tracing lazy circles along your shirt.
when you finally break apart, his eyes are soft and that small smile still lingers on his lips. “that was clever. didn’t see it coming at all,” suguru chuckles and squeezes your waist.
you laugh and rest your forehead against his, “hehe, the trend’s all over tiktok. it’s kinda like a ‘see if your boyfriend melts into the kiss’ thing,”
suguru chuckles before pulling you even tighter to his chest. “oh—well, how could i not?” he leans in for another quick peck, “you’re too irresistible for any challenge to hold up.”
the phone is forgotten in the background as he sways with you slightly, like a slow dance.
“next time, warn me,” suguru teases as he lightly flicks your forehead, but his tone is fond, “or don’t actually—i like the surprise.”
𝜗𝒞 NANAMI KENTO
you prop your phone on the desk in your boyfriend’s study, angling it just right. kento watches you from the corner of his eye while he checks a few documents.
“kennn,” you say after a couple seconds pass, “indulge me for a moment? stand here and hold your arms up like this—it’s for a challenge. don’t lower them until i say, ‘kay?”
kento adjusts his glasses and leans back in his chair. a small frown of curiosity creases his brow, but he complies without protest. he stands up and comes to a stop in front of you.
he raises his arms steadily. his eyes soften as he looks down at you, “a challenge, hm? sure.”
smiling inwardly, you step closer and loop your arms around his neck before you connect your lips in a kiss. it’s soft at first, your lips moving against his simultaneously. you feel him tense slightly in surprise—his eyes widening a fraction.
then they close and kento leans into it. the kiss turns gentle, loving and slow. like he’s savoring a fine wine.
the blonde’s arms lower gracefully with both hands coming up to cup your face. the pads of his thumbs strok your cheeks with tender care as his tongue swipes over your bottom lip, coaxing a satisfied sigh out of you.
kento holds you like you’re precious, deepening the kiss without rush and pouring quiet passion into every move of his mouth against yours.
when you pull back slightly, his eyes open with a warm and affectionate light glinting in them.
“that was quite sneaky,” he chuckles softly, a hint of feigned reproach in his voice, but it’s undercut by the way his thumbs that keep lovingly caressing your cheekbones.
“you could have just asked for a kiss, sweetheart,” kento teases with a hint of a grin.
you giggle before leaning into his touch, “but where’s the fun in that? it’s a trend—to see if you’d melt into the kiss.”
kento sighs fondly and places a quick peck to your forehead, “i see. well, consider me defeated.”
your boyfriend pulls you back in to kiss you again, this time with a bit more intensity. like he can’t wait to turn the initial ‘tiktok trend’ into something more.
the world fades—the pile of work on his desk, the muffled chatter outside your home—until it’s just the two of you.
𝜗𝒞 FUSHIGURO TOJI
you hide your phone on the nightstand in your shared bedroom with the camera aimed at the bed’s edge.
“hey, babe,” you motion for toji to come over to you, batting your lashes so he’d comply, “stand here with your arms up for a second. it’s like a challenge. don't drop ‘em, or you lose.”
toji, who was lazying around on the bed, drops his phone to the side after a second. he stands up with a grunt and grumbles something under his breath before standing in front of you.
the dark-haired man towers over your smaller frame. he looks at you and them at the phone before smirking, scarred lip curling up. he raises his arms and the muscles bulge slightly.
“a challenge? doll, y’know damn well i don't play games i can't win,” toji boasts and flexes his arms a bit as if expecting something physical, “what’s the prize? better be y’r pu—”
with not another word, you lunge forward and crash your lips against his.
toji grunts in surprise, but it lasts a nanosecond before he goes all in. he bites down on your bottom lip with just enough pressure to make you whimper. his raised arms drop like dead weight within a split second, veiny hands grabbing your ass and lifting you up effortlessly.
you wrap your legs around his waist on instinct. your boyfriend deepens the kiss, rough and passionate, his tongue invading your mouth like he owns it. he backs you up against the wall next to the bed and pins you there with his body. one hand squeezes your thigh while the other grips your hip hard enough to bruise. in the best way.
“fuck the challenge,” toji growls against your mouth, his voice gruff. it’s like that simple kiss has unlocked his pent-up desire for you. he grinds his hips up against yours before moving on to nip at your neck, “y’ think you can tease me like that and not pay up?”
you laugh breathlessly, but it’s abruptly cut off as he kisses you hard again, his hands squeezing the plump flesh of your ass.
you realise the phone’s still rolling and capturing every heated moment. perhaps it’d be smart to stop it before things turn. . . real explicit.
“wait—camera’s on,” you manage between gasps.
toji breaks the kiss before glancing at it with a wicked smirk. he turns back to you and angles your bodies just right so your phone gets everything on screen;
“good. keep it on—show ‘em how i really handle you.”
he carries you to the bed and tosses you down before blanketing your body with his larger one, the kisses turning almost feral in the meantime. clothes start coming off and moans fill the air.
and the video? it might just capture more than a trend.
𝜗𝒞 SUKUNA RYOMEN
trying the tiktok trend on sukuna felt risky—faking a ‘challenge’ only to kiss him and test if he’d melt into it. you don’t think the king of curses would exactly ‘melt’ into it. you set it up anyway, curious and determined about cracking that facade. even if it’s just a tiny bit.
your phone leans against a book on the table to record everything subtly.
“ryo,” you call out, your voice steady despite your nerves, “can you please come and stand here with your arms raised? it’s a challenge.”
sukuna scoffs from his place on the couch, red eyes narrowing at you. though he decides to humor you so you won’t whine in his hear.
he stands up and looms over you, raising his beefy arms up, but not without complaining gruffly, “tch. be quick about it, brat. got stuff to do.”
you roll your eyes, not bothering to reply verbally. you step closer, wrap your arms around his neck and tilt his face down to kiss him, lips smushed firm against his.
sukuna stays still for a moment, unyieldingly so, then lets out a gruff scoff into your mouth. he then kisses back with pure dominance. hard and unforgiving, but not entirely brutal. it’s like he’s aiming to reclaim the upper hand in this situation.
his arms drop instantly and wrap around your smaller form, squeezing you tight to his chest as he lifts you effortlessly. your feet dangle off the ground and your nails dig into the skin of his shoulders for stability.
“hah, knew you’d pull some shit like this,” sukuna mutters while biting down on your bottom lip. he relishes the yelp you let out before the kiss intensifies.
his grip turns almost bruising but thrilling, holding you like you’re prey. with a casual flick of his fingers, sukuna sends your phone skittering across the table to make space.
he then lays you down on the same surface and hovers over you, blocking out any light. his crimson eyes gleam with smug satisfaction.
“challenge over, woman,” sukuna growls while his lips move against yours, controlling the rhythm. one hand pins you by the shoulder, another grabbing your jaw. it’s intense and overwhelming, but you melt under it.
he nibbles on your bottom lip with his fangs, almost hard enough to draw blood, “next time, just beg if ya want my attention that fuckin’ badly.”
𝜗𝒞 CHOSO KAMO
you set your phone on the coffee table, hidden by a vase. “cho, c’mere,” you say lightly, “i need you to stand with your arms up for this challenge. don’t drop them, okay? it’s important.”
choso walks into the living room, hair still a bit wet as he had just finished showering. he blinks, a tad confused but trusting. he raises his arms obediently
“like this? what’s it for? some kinda training?” choso asks curiously.
smiling, you approach and lean in to kiss him without warning. your lips are gentle against his, a soft caress that has him short-circuiting. he keeps his arms up, almost frozen and only blinks a few times as realization dawns. his cheeks tint pink and his eyes widening before they soften.
choso slowly kisses back and his arms stay up for a few more seconds before finally dropping just to pull you close. his fingers hold you by the back of your head, keeping you pressed up against him while he goes all putty in your embrace.
a soft smile breaks between kisses as he murmurs, “that was sly of you,” choso’s voice is quiet and affectionate, his tongue brushing yours once you part your lips, “real sly, pulling that on me.”
you gently laugh into the kiss and he deepens it gently, hands tentative at first though slowly growing bolder. one cups your cheek, the other still holding you by your nape.
“didn't expect that,” he whispers and smiles wider, “but i like it. a whole lot.”
the phone captures it all: the initial obliviousness, the surprise and the eventual kissing. but choso’s focus is only on you now, kisses interspersed with soft words.
“you’re full of surprises, baby,” he says and nuzzles your nose, “do stuff like this more often, yeah?”
not tired like sleepy. tired like your skin feels too tight and your thoughts won’t shut up and you’re hyper-aware of your own body in the worst possible way. you’re halfway through tugging your shirt down, like fabric can erase insecurity if you bully it hard enough, when saturo catches your wrist.
not rough. just firm. annoyingly gentle.
“hey,” he says, voice light, like he isn’t about to ruin your entire coping mechanism. “why are we doing that.”
you scoff. automatic. defensive. “doing what.”
he tilts his head, sunglasses pushed up just enough that you feel his eyes instead of see them. blue, sharp, amused. always like he knows something you don’t.
“the disappearing act. you do it when you’re spiraling.”
great. he’s observant today. that’s dangerous.
you try to pull your hand back. he doesn’t let you. not because he’s stronger. because he’s gojo saturo and he doesn’t need force to win. he just waits.
your chest is warm. too warm. there’s that familiar itch under your skin, the one that says you’re about to say something stupid or cruel or both.
“they’re just… there,” you mutter. you don’t say the words. you don’t have to. your fingers twitch, hovering near your stomach, the soft curve you’ve been pretending not to notice all day. the lines. the proof that your body has existed loudly.
saturo hums. low. thoughtful. like you just presented him with a puzzle instead of your worst fear.
“there?” he repeats, and his grip shifts, thumb pressing into the inside of your wrist like he’s grounding himself. his gaze drops, not rushed, not shy. deliberate. the corner of his mouth lifts, slow and certain, like he’s already decided this argument is over.
“you mean my favorite part?” his fingers flex once, almost absentminded, like he’s resisting the urge to pull you closer. like he already has.
you laugh. it comes out sharp, disbelieving.
“don’t start.”
“i’m not starting,” he says. he steps closer. too close. his presence is a pressure change, like the room recalibrates around him. “i’m stating facts. you just hate those.”
your back hits the wall. not dramatically. accidentally. his hand plants beside your head, not trapping you, just… there. heat radiates off him. you can smell clean soap and something electric, like ozone before a storm.
your pulse is loud. embarrassingly loud.
“they’re ugly,” you say, because if you don’t say it first, it feels worse. “they make me look—”
“human?” he offers. a smile in his voice. “yeah. tragic.”
you glare at him. he grins wider, teeth flashing, smug and fond in equal measure. then his expression shifts. subtle. the teasing dialed down half a notch.
“they make you real,” he says. “they make you you. and i’m dating you, not some airbrushed hallucination.”
your throat tightens. you hate that. you hate that he can do that with one sentence.
he reaches out, slow enough that you could stop him. you don’t. his fingers brush the hem of your shirt, barely there. a question. your breath stutters anyway.
“can i?” he asks, softer now. still confident. still saturo. but careful.
you nod. tiny. almost nothing.
he lifts the fabric just enough. cool air kisses your skin. his touch follows, warm, deliberate, like he’s memorizing instead of inspecting. his thumb traces one line. then another. not fast. not sexual in the obvious way. intimate in the way that makes your chest ache.
“they’re not scars,” he says quietly, like correcting himself. his thumb slows, almost tender. “they’re brushstrokes. like your body decided to leave proof that it was loved by time.”
his fingers trace them again, unhurried, almost devotional. “i don’t see damage,” he adds. “i see something finished. intentional.”
you hold your breath. you swallow. your skin is on fire where he touches you. not because it’s erotic. because it’s seen. fully. without flinching.
“i don’t want you to hide,” he continues, quieter now. “not from me. especially not the parts you think i’ll like less.”
you look at him then. really look. the cocky tilt of his mouth. the ridiculous confidence. the sincerity underneath it, steady and immovable as bedrock.
“you’re not just saying this,” you say. accusatory.
he snorts. “please. i lie for fun, not about you.”
his forehead drops to yours. not a kiss. worse. intimate. close enough that your noses brush when you breathe.
“i like the softness,” he murmurs. “the weight. the way you exist without apologizing. even when you think you are.”
your hands curl into his shirt. you don’t mean to. your body betrays you constantly.
“you make it hard,” you whisper.
"good." his smile is slow. dangerous.
he doesn’t kiss you. that’s the cruel part. he just stays there, thumb still warm against your skin, breath steady, eyes locked on yours like he’s daring you to believe him.
the moment stretches. tight. electric. and you don’t pull away.
@azaisaid – do not copy, repost, or translate my work. likes and reblogs are appreciated!
𝜗ৎ he has destroyed cities. today he survives a tea party
sukuna knew the exact moment things went wrong.
it was when the door shut behind you, the sound of your footsteps fading down the hall, and he was left standing in the living room with his arms crossed and his daughter staring up at him like a tiny tyrant assessing her next victim.
she smiled. slow, sweet, and dangerous.
“you’re babysitting me,” she announced, hands clasped behind her back, curls perfectly in place, dress pristine. a face that's porcelain and endearingly adorable.
“i’m supervising,” he corrected, already irritated. “you’re not an infant. don’t act like one.”
she tilted her head. studied him. then nodded, as if conceding a point no one else was part of.
“okay. you’re supervising.” a pause. “from the dollhouse.”
no.
he looked at the miniature setup on the floor. the pastel roof. the tiny furniture. the offensively small teacups. he felt something deep and ancient inside him recoil.
“no,” he said flatly.
the young one crouched anyway, smoothing out the rug inside the dollhouse with meticulous care. “princess needs her father.”
“i’m not playing this game.” he snapped.
she looked up. tilted her head. “but you’re the dad.”
he felt his chest tighten. that… was worse.
minutes later, the poor pink haired man was seated on the floor, back against the couch, one massive knee bent up while his daughter arranged dolls with surgical precision. he hadn’t moved voluntarily. it had been a slow, strategic defeat involving staring contests and a threat to cry loudly enough for the neighbors to hear.
he glared at the doll shoved into his hand.
“this thing is missing an arm.”
“she’s mysterious,” his daughter said. “now talk.”
“i’m not talking for it.”
her doe eyes narrowed. “you have to. it’s the rules.”
he scoffed. “i don’t follow rules made by plastic.”
she leaned closer, voice dropping into a dramatic whisper. “if you don’t, princess sparkleberry will be sad.”
princess sparkleberry.
sukuna closed his eyes. just for a second. long enough to regret every life choice that had led here.
“what does she want,” he muttered.
she beamed. victory, pure and absolute. “tea daddy, duhh. and you have to do the girl voice.”
silence.
“what.”
“the girl voice,” she repeated patiently, like he was the slow one. “high. nice. like this.” she demonstrated. perfect pitch. weaponized cuteness.
“no.”
“yes.”
“NO.”
she folded her arms, lifted her chin. the resemblance hit him like a curse. same posture. same look. same absolute certainty that the world would bend.
“okay,” she said, lips already wobbling, voice turning syrupy and dangerous. “then i’ll cry. and cry. and cry.” she sniffed, deliberately loud. “and i won’t stop.”
he growled under his breath. teeth clenched. every instinct screamed violence. not at her. never at her. at the universe for daring him like this.
he lifted the doll. held it between two fingers like it might explode.
“…hello,” he said, voice barely raised, flat and unimpressed.
she squinted. “higher.”
“i will throw this stupid thing into the sun.”
“no you won’t.”
she was right. that was the infuriating part.
he exhaled sharply through his nose, then pitched his voice up just enough to be unmistakably wrong. mocking. dry. a parody of cheer.
“hello,” he tried again. “i’m princess sparkleberry. i demand tea and respect,” a pause "and if you forget either, i'll burn your kingdom down."
her face lit up. “yes! she’s sassy.”
“i know,” he said darkly. “i can feel it.”
they played like that. his cute lil gremlin dictating elaborate domestic dramas. who lived where. who was offended. who needed rescuing. sukuna followed along with minimal effort, twisting every line into something sharp, sarcastic, and oddly… effective. the dolls ended up ruling kingdoms. enforcing laws and intimidating rivals. and gosh, his little miss diva approved of all of it.
at some point, she climbed into his side without asking, leaning against his arm while still holding court over the dollhouse. he stiffened instinctively, then forced himself to stay still. sukuna adjusted his arm slightly. a fraction closer. protective. controlled.
she looked up at him, half-lidded. “you’re good at this.”
he scoffed. “how dare you.”
her fingers curled into his sleeve anyway. he stayed there until you came back. long after the game ended. long after she fell asleep against him, clutching her precious one-hand princess sparkleberry like a treasured weapon.
when he heard your key in the door, he didn’t move her. didn’t need to. no one else was allowed to.
you come back quietly, keys barely whispering as the door clicks shut behind you. the living room is wrong. not destroyed. not bloody. just… wrong. your husband is on the floor. broad frame folded into the carpet like he’s been defeated by gravity itself. not wounded. not unconscious. something far more unthinkable. he’s surrounded.
your daughter is asleep against his side, her curls crushed into his chest, one tiny chubby hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt like she owns him. dolls ring him in a loose, plastic circle, their painted eyes fixed in silent judgment. one leans against his knee. another rests in his open palm. and at the center of it all, calm and untouchable, he looks like a king temporarily overthrown by pastel tyranny.
he notices you immediately. of course he does.
his red eyes lift to yours, sharp and warning, silently daring you to say anything.
you raise your hands anyway, palms out, nails catching the light. fresh. glossy. a color you know he hates because it draws attention.
“oh,” you murmur, smiling. “did I interrupt something important?”
he clicks his tongue, clearly irritated. “you walk in here flaunting those claws like you didn’t abandon me.”
“i was gone for an hour.”
“an hour too long, dammit.”
your gaze drops pointedly to the dolls. to the tiny tiara perched on one of them. to the faint smudge of glitter on his knuckle.
“…you look busy,” you say, voice teasing but soft, the kind that makes fun without ever being mean.
his jaw tightens. “if you laugh, i’ll kill you.” not literally, no.
you step closer, crouching just enough to admire the scene. “is that princess sparkleberry I see?”
his eye twitches. “she named it,” he says flatly. “i had no involvement.”
your daughter stirs in her sleep, brow knitting for a heartbeat before she nestles closer. sukuna doesn’t look down. he doesn’t have to. his arm shifts with quiet care, easing around her just enough to keep her steady, thumb brushing once against her sleeve before stilling. the touch is restrained, deliberate, and unmistakably gentle, like he’s handling something the world isn’t allowed to break.
you smile softer this time. warmer. “she looks happy.”
“she better,” he mutters. “I don’t humiliate myself for nothing.”
you reach out, brushing your thumb over his shoulder. he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t tell you to stop.
your nails gleam between you. “you know,” you say lightly, “we could match next time. me at the salon, you at… dollhouse court.”
he finally looks at you properly. slow and intense.
“don’t push your luck, woman.” he says. then, quieter, almost lost under his breath, “get her to bed before she wakes up and asks me to sing.”
you bite a laugh as you reach for your daughter, careful hands sliding under her back, lifting her with gentle ease. the little one stirs, brow knitting for a second before she settles again, nose pressing into your shoulder. one of her tiny fingers loosens from sukuna’s sleeve and catches on your collar instead.
he watches it happen. all of it. the way you instinctively adjust your hold, the way she fits against you like she was always meant to be there. something in his chest eases, slow and unfamiliar, like a tension finally allowed to rest. his mouth tilts, barely there, a quiet curve he doesn’t bother hiding. he lets himself feel it. just this once.
a.n. i love love loveee me some daddy sukuna's fics hsjshds and had fun writing this one, couldn't stop giggling n shi. i might post more girl dad kuna fics hehe
the kitchen is loud in that soft, lived in way - rice steaming on the stove, a window cracked open to let in the late afternoon breeze, the low hum of the city outside.
you’re at the counter, sleeves rolled, trying to finish cutting vegetables before the timer goes off again.
behind you - absolute chaos.
“why do we have to clean our room now?” your son whines, dragging the words like they physically hurt him.
your daughter slumps dramatically over the table. “you said later, you're insufferable - always changing your mind.”
you close your eyes for half a second, breathe in, and turn around. “i said after homework. homework is done. rooms next.”
they groan in unison.
“ugh, you’re so unfair,” your son mutters, just loud enough to sting. “you don’t even know how boring it is.”
the words land deeper than they should - not because they’re cruel, but because you’re tired, because it’s been a long day. because you’ve been holding everything together with quiet patience and the unspoken understanding that is just a part of you.
before you can respond, the air behind you shifts.
satoru had been leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching with that lazy, half-amused expression he wears when he’s pretending not to pay attention.
his blindfold is gone; his piercing blue eyes in full view, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. when he straightens, the room subtly reorients itself around him - like gravity remembered where it belongs.
his voice is calm. low and definitely not playful.
“hey.” he starts - both kids freeze as if caught in the middle of a crime scene.
they turn toward him instinctively. gojo steps forward just enough to be unavoidable, hands sliding into his pockets. he doesn’t raise his voice. he doesn’t smile.
“don’t talk to my wife like that.”
the words hit the room - and you.
something in your chest tightens, then warms, then aches. "wife" - fuck - not corrective, not casual. possessive in the quietest, surest way. like a line drawn, no - carved in stone.
the kids go silent.
“she asked you to do something reasonable,” gojo continues, tone steady, unshakable. “and you don’t get to take your frustration out on her just because you’re bored.”
your son opens his mouth, then thinks better of it when gojo tilts his head slightly.
“you can be tired,” gojo says. “you can be annoyed. that’s fine.” his gaze sharpens - not cruel, just firm. “but you will be respectful.”
your heartbeat stutters from something else entirely. from being seen. backed. claimed without spectacle. it stirs something deep and private, something grounding and dizzying all at once.
“i’m sorry,” your daughter says quietly.
your son nods. “yeah. sorry, mom.”
you hadn’t realized how tense your shoulders were until they finally drop.
gojo glances at you then - just briefly. the edge in his expression softens in a way only you ever see. a silent i’ve got you.
“alright,” he says, clapping his hands once, the mood loosening just enough. “rooms. ten minutes. i’ll check.”
they scatter down the hall - the kitchen settles again.
you lean back against the counter, exhaling. gojo steps closer, lowering his voice. “you okay?”
you nod, but the way your pulse is still racing gives you away.
he leans down and presses a soft kiss to your temple, lingering just a second longer. “you don’t have to carry everything alone,” he murmurs. “that’s my job too.”
your throat tightens but you smile anyway - small, real.
from the hallway, a voice calls, “dad - does shoving everything under the bed count?”
and as the noise resumes, your hand finds his wrist for just a moment - steadying yourself, grounding that stirred, glowing thing in your chest - because you know now, more than ever, that you’re not standing alone.
not tired like sleepy. tired like your skin feels too tight and your thoughts won’t shut up and you’re hyper-aware of your own body in the worst possible way. you’re halfway through tugging your shirt down, like fabric can erase insecurity if you bully it hard enough, when saturo catches your wrist.
not rough. just firm. annoyingly gentle.
“hey,” he says, voice light, like he isn’t about to ruin your entire coping mechanism. “why are we doing that.”
you scoff. automatic. defensive. “doing what.”
he tilts his head, sunglasses pushed up just enough that you feel his eyes instead of see them. blue, sharp, amused. always like he knows something you don’t.
“the disappearing act. you do it when you’re spiraling.”
great. he’s observant today. that’s dangerous.
you try to pull your hand back. he doesn’t let you. not because he’s stronger. because he’s gojo saturo and he doesn’t need force to win. he just waits.
your chest is warm. too warm. there’s that familiar itch under your skin, the one that says you’re about to say something stupid or cruel or both.
“they’re just… there,” you mutter. you don’t say the words. you don’t have to. your fingers twitch, hovering near your stomach, the soft curve you’ve been pretending not to notice all day. the lines. the proof that your body has existed loudly.
saturo hums. low. thoughtful. like you just presented him with a puzzle instead of your worst fear.
“there?” he repeats, and his grip shifts, thumb pressing into the inside of your wrist like he’s grounding himself. his gaze drops, not rushed, not shy. deliberate. the corner of his mouth lifts, slow and certain, like he’s already decided this argument is over.
“you mean my favorite part?” his fingers flex once, almost absentminded, like he’s resisting the urge to pull you closer. like he already has.
you laugh. it comes out sharp, disbelieving.
“don’t start.”
“i’m not starting,” he says. he steps closer. too close. his presence is a pressure change, like the room recalibrates around him. “i’m stating facts. you just hate those.”
your back hits the wall. not dramatically. accidentally. his hand plants beside your head, not trapping you, just… there. heat radiates off him. you can smell clean soap and something electric, like ozone before a storm.
your pulse is loud. embarrassingly loud.
“they’re ugly,” you say, because if you don’t say it first, it feels worse. “they make me look—”
“human?” he offers. a smile in his voice. “yeah. tragic.”
you glare at him. he grins wider, teeth flashing, smug and fond in equal measure. then his expression shifts. subtle. the teasing dialed down half a notch.
“they make you real,” he says. “they make you you. and i’m dating you, not some airbrushed hallucination.”
your throat tightens. you hate that. you hate that he can do that with one sentence.
he reaches out, slow enough that you could stop him. you don’t. his fingers brush the hem of your shirt, barely there. a question. your breath stutters anyway.
“can i?” he asks, softer now. still confident. still saturo. but careful.
you nod. tiny. almost nothing.
he lifts the fabric just enough. cool air kisses your skin. his touch follows, warm, deliberate, like he’s memorizing instead of inspecting. his thumb traces one line. then another. not fast. not sexual in the obvious way. intimate in the way that makes your chest ache.
“they’re not scars,” he says quietly, like correcting himself. his thumb slows, almost tender. “they’re brushstrokes. like your body decided to leave proof that it was loved by time.”
his fingers trace them again, unhurried, almost devotional. “i don’t see damage,” he adds. “i see something finished. intentional.”
you hold your breath. you swallow. your skin is on fire where he touches you. not because it’s erotic. because it’s seen. fully. without flinching.
“i don’t want you to hide,” he continues, quieter now. “not from me. especially not the parts you think i’ll like less.”
you look at him then. really look. the cocky tilt of his mouth. the ridiculous confidence. the sincerity underneath it, steady and immovable as bedrock.
“you’re not just saying this,” you say. accusatory.
he snorts. “please. i lie for fun, not about you.”
his forehead drops to yours. not a kiss. worse. intimate. close enough that your noses brush when you breathe.
“i like the softness,” he murmurs. “the weight. the way you exist without apologizing. even when you think you are.”
your hands curl into his shirt. you don’t mean to. your body betrays you constantly.
“you make it hard,” you whisper.
"good." his smile is slow. dangerous.
he doesn’t kiss you. that’s the cruel part. he just stays there, thumb still warm against your skin, breath steady, eyes locked on yours like he’s daring you to believe him.
the moment stretches. tight. electric. and you don’t pull away.
@azaisaid – do not copy, repost, or translate my work. likes and reblogs are appreciated!
