do u think god rolls his eyes when we pray about not slipping or falling because he knows when the moment comes the last thing you think about is your feet
fem! reader ; mom! reader and dad! sukuna ; you have a daughter ; modern non curse au ; sukuna is just a girl dad trying not to get white hairs okay ; very classic trope of the girl dad realizing his daughter like boys
You come home from work to find Sukuna already posted at the entrance, hands on his hips, glaring holes into the front door as if it personally wronged him. The moment it shuts behind you, you stop dead in your tracks.
“Am I in trouble?” You lift a brow, eyeing him cautiously.
“No,” he grumbles. Then he pauses. “Well. Maybe. Depends on how you react.”
“To what?”
“Our daughter held hands with a boy at school today,” he says, staring at you with an expression of pure horror—the kind that screams: can you fucking believe this?
You can’t believe it. Your eyes widen. Your jaw drops. “No way,” you gasp.
“Yeah,” he nods grimly. “Fuckin’ ridiculous—”
“That’s so cute!”
The silence that follows is immediate. He stares at you. You stare back. Then he squints. “Okay. Now you’re in trouble, too. You didn’t react how you were supposed to.”
“Don’t you think you’re being a little…dramatic?” you ask, snorting. “They’re four year olds. What could this possibly be an issue for?”
Sukuna bristles.
He does not take kindly to being told he is dramatic, especially when his daughter—who is the only precious, well-behaved child in a world crawling with intolerable brats—is being clearly and maliciously influenced by a boy. Boys do not have good intentions. Anyone with half a brain knows this, and Sukuna is starting to seriously question your parental instincts.
“There’s an issue when some snot-nosed punk is makin’ grabby hands for my little girl!”
“Our little girl,” you correct.
“She’s mine if you keep this ridiculous behavior up,” he snaps, folding his arms. “I’m gettin’ full custody. You can’t be trusted.”
“You make it so hard to take you seriously sometimes,” you giggle, arms sliding around his neck.
Despite himself, Sukuna softens. Just a little. His hands find your hips, pulling you in closer even though he’s still visibly unimpressed with you.
“He’ll ruin her,” he says, voice strained. “Next thing you know, she’ll be seatmates with him. Then she’ll play with him on the playground. And then they’ll be havin’ lunch dates in the cafeteria, and she’ll be sharin’ her fruit snacks with some punk that we paid for! We can’t let someone’s hideous son eat off our money!”
“Oh no,” you gasp dramatically. “We’ll be short a few fruit snacks! How will we ever recover, babe?”
“Very funny,” he shoots you a dirty look, eyes narrowing into irritated slits as you fight a grin. “I see you’re handling this very maturely,” he adds, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“And I see you’re not overreacting at all,” you counter. “It’s a good thing you stayed calm and collected.”
“He’ll break her heart!”
“He’s four,” you say flatly.
“Yeah, and?” Sukuna snaps. “He’s still capable of evil. I could list about twelve things a four-year-old could do off the top of my head to break my sweet, precious, innocent girl’s heart.”
“Like what?”
“He could share his markers with another girl. Or hold hands with someone else in line. Or hit her with a ball during dodgeball. Or pick her for popcorn-reading when she’s not payin’ attention and expose her in front of the teacher, or—”
“Okay,” you cut in, raising a hand. “Okay. I get it. He can hurt her feelings. Yes. Again, they’re four. I’m sure one ice cream trip will heal her.”
“I can’t believe how little our daughter’s first heartbreak means to you!”
“You mean the heartbreak that didn’t even happen?” you ask, exasperated.
“It’s inevitable,” he hisses. “Don’t you know all boys are the same?”
Sukuna knows exactly how this goes.
At first, his sweet, trusting little girl will think this boy is everything. He’ll help her with homework. Let her borrow his pencils. Maybe, during recess, he’ll even let her win games just to be nice. But boys are all hardwired to behave the same way. Eventually, another girl will catch his attention (because nothing is ever enough for boys) and his perfect, beautiful little angel will have her heart torn clean in two.
Sukuna is not going to allow such absurd nonsense to take place while he’s standing right here. Other people’s failure to raise their bratty runts properly will not be what hurts his precious daughter.
“We should pay him a visit,” he grunts, looking you in the eyes. You’re a little concerned when they almost look too serious to be a joke—you like to pray he’s joking. “Have a chat with him. Maybe his parents too—figure out what sorta parenting methods they use.”
“You’ve officially lost it,” you give him a tired look. “I think you need to sleep more.”
“Do you ever take anything seriously?” He scoffs.
“I don’t know how many times I have to say it before it clicks—the kid is four!”
“And I don’t know how many times I have to say it before you understand that age has nothing to do with intent,” Sukuna fires back. “Evil doesn’t come with a minimum requirement.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Our daughter is still not old enough to understand you can't eat glue sticks.”
“Exactly,” he says sharply. “This age is a dangerous time—unpredictable. Poor judgment. No impulse control. You’re just proving my point.”
“That is not—” you cut yourself off, exhaling slowly. “Okay. Let’s say, hypothetically, this boy is some kind of miniature menace. What are you suggesting we do? Interrogate him? Put him in a chair under a bright light?”
Sukuna considers this for a beat, giving you a tiny smirk. “Are you making suggestions?”
“No! You are not going to threaten a preschooler.”
“I wouldn’t threaten him,” he scoffs. “I’d just let him know I exist.”
“Absolutely not!”
“What do you suggest then, genius? We can't just leave it,” he snaps. “Today it’s hand-holding, tomorrow it’s sittin’ too close during story time.”
You blink. “Baby—”
“She’s still got those chubby little fingers,” he continues, voice laced with a soft, fond little lilt. (And you wonder, sometimes, how the world might react knowing someone as rough and grumpy as Sukuna could sound so delicate.) “For fuck’s sake, she still mispronounces half her words. Still asks us to check for monsters under her bed. And some punk thinks he’s gonna touch her?”
Your irritation softens despite yourself. You step closer—if that’s even possible—and press a kiss to his jaw. Instantly, he melts.
People don’t tend to think Sukuna can wear the role of fatherhood the way he should, but he does. You like fatherhood on Sukuna. It looks good. Fits him like a glove, in fact.
He’s rough and harsh and doesn’t always have the right words to say—you’d know better than anyone, but he never has a hard time trying for her. Never feels shame or embarrassment for being soft and vulnerable when she’s so tiny and delicate in his arms. Never feels walls come up when the pressure is on and never backs away and runs. Not for her. Not for you, either—but especially not for her.
You like fatherhood on Sukuna. He looks like a better man when he wears it. (Except, of course, when he perhaps considers being a villain in another child’s story all for the sake of his daughter’s hypothetical first heartbreak in pre school.)
“How about we talk to her,” you smile sweetly, pressing delicate little convincing kisses into his jaw with those pretty lips, “prepare her for the realities of this world instead of harass other children.”
“So you’re a victim blamer,” he clicks his tongue, “think the innocent should deal with it rather than hold the guilty accountable?”
“I am an advocate for being a good role model for our daughter so she knows her father examples grace and compassion,” you chuckle.
Sukuna scoffs, rolling his eyes. His arms wrap around your waist, and he brings you closer, pressing his forehead to yours. Your fingers fiddle with the baby hairs at the base of his neck as you hum.
“She’s gettin’ too fuckin’ big.”
“She is,” you sigh wistfully, “she’s already asking me to teach her how to tie her shoes so she can do it herself. What’s next?”
“She’ll read her own bed time stories,” he responds grimly. You giggle at that, and he gives you a small, amused smirk in return. And then, “We should have another little runt.”
You give him a flat stare.
“We are not having another child until you learn how to properly digest your feelings and not lash out at other children,” you scoff.
And then you detangle yourself from his arms and make your way to your living room, where you hear a little voice call out—
i need a boyfriend. i need a girlfriend. i need to be single forever. i need a toxic situationship. i need a problematically older man to be homoerotically involved with. i need to have gay sex. i need no one to ever touch me ever again in any way. i need top surgery. i need a hug.
MDNI! | learning to gag on it is lesson one. lesson two is why satoru’s called an excellent teacher
You’re on your knees in his dorm room and the carpet smells like spilled energy drinks.
Satoru’s hand is in your hair, possessive, while his other hand is wrapped around himself, stroking slow while he watches you with those stupid blue eyes.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“Well, I don’t know what to do.”
“That’s why I’m here.” He grins that cocky grin that made you want to punch him when you first met him and now it just lowkey makes you wet. “Gonna teach you how to suck cock like a good girl.”
The words should embarrass you and maybe they do but mostly they just make heat pool low in your stomach.
“First...” He guides your hand to replace his. “Hold it."
"Tighter, I’m not gonna break.”
You wrap your fingers around him and he’s hot and hard, bigger up close than you expected.
Your hand looks small against him.
“Good."
"Now... stroke, slow. Just like that...fuck—” His hips twitch. “Yeah, yeah..just like that.”
You find a rhythm while you watch his face, the way his jaw tightens and his eyes go half-lidded.
You’re learning his body, what makes him react.
“Okay, stop.” He’s breathing harder now.
“Lean in and lick it, just your tongue. Get it wet.”
You hesitate for a moment.
“It’s just me,” he says, his voice softer. “You trust me?”
“Mhm.”
“Then show me.”
You lean forward, licking a stripe up the underside.
He makes a broken sound and you do it again, gaining confidence.
“Fuck yes...just like that...get it nice and wet for me—”
His encouragement makes you bolder as you lick again, around the head.
You taste salt and skin, he’s leaking already and you lap at it experimentally.
“Holy shit—” His hand tightens in your hair. “You’re a natural, such a good fucking girl.”
The praise goes straight between your legs.
You press your thighs together, trying to get some relief.
He notices, of course.
“You getting wet from this?” He asks. “From having my cock in your face?”
“Yes”
“Answer properly when we’re like this.”
“Yes, Satoru.”
“Good girl, now: open that pretty mouth and take me in., just the tip first.”
You do, wrapping your lips around the head and he groans loud, shameless.
“Fuck...yes—just like that...watch your teeth...good girl...take a little more—”
You take more, trying to relax your jaw.
It’s a stretch, he’s thick and you’re not used to this.
“Breathe through your nose,” he instructs. “And use your hand on what you can’t fit, work them together… yeah—fuck yeah just like that”
You find a rhythm.
Mouth and hand working together.
He’s loud, so fucking loud moaning and cursing and praising.
“Such a good little slut...learning so fast… gonna make me cum in that pretty mouth—you want that? Want me to cum down your throat?”
You moan around him and the vibration makes him curse.
“Fuck...do that again—”
You do, humming, and he makes this desperate sound.
His hand in your hair tightens.
“Can you take more?” He asks. “Wanna feel the back of your throat.”
You try, pushing down further but it hits and you gag.
You pull back coughing.
“Easy—” His hand is stroking your hair now.
“You did good, gagging is normal. We can work up to it.”
synopsis: thirty-two pills. the bathroom floor.
between dying and not dying, he sees his mother cradling him, then you.
content: gojo satoru x fem!reader, MDNI (18+ ONLY), college au, friends with benefits, TW! suicid3, s3x worker gojo satoru, ANGST, trauma, alcoholic gojo, addictions, PINING, YEARNING, IDIOTS IN LOVE, insecurities
notes: hello! tw, suicide pls don't read if u struggle w mentions of this. for anyone going through something similar, things do get better and you are very loved. it is never worth it
MASTERLIST - CHAPTER I, CHAPTER II, CHAPTER III, CHAPTER IV, CHAPTER V, CHAPTER VI,
I.
The pills are white and blue.
Satoru counts them into his palm—thirty-two—and thinks about how arbitrary numbers become when you’re trying to subtract yourself from the world.
The vodka bottle sits between his thighs, half-empty or half-full depending on whether you’re an optimist, which he’s not, which is why he’s here on the bathroom floor with the tiles pressing their grid into his spine.
He doesn’t turn on the light.
The street lamp outside casts everything orange-sick, his phone face-down on the sink edge, twelve missed calls.
He stopped checking names, they blur into the same question anyway: where are you where are you where are you.
Here, he’s here, on the bathroom floor, swallowing pills.
The vodka burns going down but it helps, everything helps if you’re desperate enough, that’s what he’s learned
The first pill.
The second.
By the tenth his hand is shaking.
By the twentieth the room has started its slow tilt, gravity renegotiating with the ceiling.
He thinks about the bridge he walks across every day and how he stood on it last Thursday counting the seconds it would take to fall. Three, maybe four. Quick, not like this.
This is messy.
His heart does something complicated behind his ribs. Skips a beat like a scratched record, then two. He can taste it in the back of his throat—copper, fear, giving up.
He closes his eyes.
II.
The visions come in fragments, psychedelic and unspooling.
He’s five, maybe six.
The apartment still holds her perfume in its walls—jasmine and something chemical.
His mother is holding him, and in this memory she’s not tired, not disappointed, not counting the days until she can leave.
She’s soft and warm, like an angel.
The mother from before he understood that love was something you could run out of.
Her arms are around him and he’s small enough to believe this is forever, small enough that the world is just her heartbeat through her chest, steady and absolute as gospel.
“My beautiful boy,” she says, voice from dreams, from the place before language, before understanding that beautiful boys grow up into men swallowing pills on bathroom floors.
Her fingers move through his white hair—her hair, her eyes in every mirror, the inheritance that came with terms and conditions never read to him.
He’s nursing, just warmth and the rhythm of her breathing and safety that feels cellular.
She hums something, a lullaby from her memory.
“You’re going to be okay,” she whispers, and then—
Her face shifts, becomes yours.
Your eyes where hers were. Your mouth. Your hands in his hair but still cradling him, still holding him.
“Satoru,” you say. “Satoru, wake up.”
But he can’t, can’t move.
Your face bleeds into his mother’s—two photographs held against a window, overlapping.
The first person who left and the last person who will.
III.
The bathroom dissolves into somewhere darker. Somewhere that smells like cigarette ash and cheap cologne
He’s sixteen. Old enough that he said yes when he should have said no, when he should have run, when he should have understood that pretty boys learn their value early and it never gets higher than this.
The man is a wolf.
The man is a wolf and Satoru is a lamb on an altar, white and small and so fucking stupid for thinking this was anything other than what it was.
The wolf’s mouth opens until it’s not a mouth anymore, just black, just the void where love should have been if love was something that happened to boys like him.
The lamb doesn’t scream because lambs don’t scream. They just bleed quiet, they just...
Your face again.
Superimposed over the wolf’s muzzle, over his mother’s gentle hands, over every person who’s touched him, every time he’s swallowed something he shouldn’t have.
He’s on the floor but he doesn’t remember falling, doesn't remember when the ceiling traded places with his body.
His heart is slowing, each beat taking longer, the spaces between getting wider like gaps he could slip through if he just stopped trying.
Good, finally.
Mom.
It smells like being five years old, like jasmine perfume.
IV.
He wakes up in his own vomit.
The thought comes clinical and distant: alive. Followed by its uglier sister: failure.
The sun is coming through the window in gray morning light.
The evidence: the pills he didn’t take enough of, the vodka that wasn’t enough, the bathroom floor where he couldn’t even manage to die properly.
Pathetic.
He drags himself to the sink.
He looks at his reflection and it's still the same face his mother gave him.
The shower water runs scalding.
He doesn’t adjust it, he stands under water hot enough to hurt, hot enough to feel like punishment for still existing.
His skin turns red.
After, he leaves his apartment because staying means looking at the evidence of his failure, means counting the pills he should have taken, means lying in bed and cataloging all the ways he can’t even self-destruct correctly.
V.
The town is quiet, it's a Sunday —empty streets, closed shops, the loneliness that only exists in Sunday daylight.
He walks without destination, his feet remember the route to the park even though his brain has stopped giving directions.
There’s a kid on the curb.
Small. Six, seven maybe.
Backpack too big for their body, shoelaces untied, waiting the way kids wait like adults promised something so it must be true.
“Are you lost?”
The kid shakes their head. “Waiting for my mom, she’s getting coffee.”
He sits down next to them.
The concrete is cold, everything is cold.
He should keep walking but his body has stopped taking orders.
“Why are you sad?” the kid asks.
“I’m not sad.”
“Your eyes are sad.” The kid tilts their head, studying him. “My mom says when people have sad eyes they need hugs.”
Satoru almost laughs.
“Everyone needs hugs,” the kid continues with the certainty only children possess. “That’s what makes sad go away.”
“Yeah,” Satoru says, because what else is there to say to someone who still believes in simple solutions.
“You should smile more, you’d be prettier.” The kid swings their legs, heels knocking against the curb. “My mom says everyone has something good inside them, even when they’re sad or they think they don’t.”
A woman appears, hurrying over with coffee in hand, relief washing over her face when she sees her kid.
“There you are—” She notices Satoru. “Thank you for staying with him.”
“No problem.” He stands, backs away.
The kid waves and he watches him leave.
Mother and child. Hands linked.
The way things are supposed to work but never worked for him.
VI.
His phone rings at 3 PM while he’s standing on the bridge.
Unknown number but he knows.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Kai. You free tonight? Usual rate.”
The water below is gray, moving.
Indifferent to whether he’s in it or not.
“No.”
Silence, then: “What?”
“I’m not free.” The words feel strange in his mouth. “Don’t call me again.”
The sun sets orange and pink—beautiful and utterly indifferent.
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