implied fem reader + one night stand turned -> baby daddy sukuna | modern au, slight angst and mentions of abortions
he was not supposed to care.
he made it very clear from the jump — the moment you stood there with trembling fingers and that little plus sign shaking in your hand — he said no. flat out.
no inflection, no hesitation. like it was a business decision — clean cut, transactional.
you cried. of course you did, and that irritated him. not because he didn’t expect it — people always cried around him, usually for very different reasons — but because you meant it. you kept saying shit like “it’s a life, ryomen. it’s mine. i’m keeping it.”
and for some godforsaken reason, that intrigued him.
he could’ve disappeared. could’ve gone ghost like it was nothing. but no, instead he sends money every month. doesn’t ask for receipts, doesn’t ask how you’re doing — just sends it. like clockwork. a habit. a system.
and then the texts started. once a week, always the same tone.
sukuna [10:38 am]: how far along
sukuna [1:00 pm]: any complications
sukuna [6:45 pm]: what are you eating
sukuna [8:09 pm]: stop eating that
cold, efficient. might as well be a fucking doctor.
and yet you answer him every time like you owe it to him. like his disapproval still somehow has weight. you even tell him the stuff he doesn’t ask, like when the baby first kicked. or when you had morning sickness so bad you fainted.
you expected silence, but the next morning there’d be a delivery at your door — electrolytes, iron supplements, snacks. you pretended not to care, and he pretended not to send them himself.
he doesn’t come to check-ups, doesn’t ask about names. doesn’t send any of those useless stuffed animal bullshit things new parents get excited over. but he thinks. silently. like, how someone like you — soft-spoken, annoyingly hopeful — could still look him in the eye and choose to have his kid.
and then you’re in labor, and for some reason it’s him you call. not your friend, not your mom, not a cab. it’s sukuna.
and he doesn’t even think. just grabs his keys, doesn’t change clothes — just a tank top, sweats, and fury in his grip as he clenches the steering wheel and breaks five traffic laws to get to the hospital.
you’re already screaming when he finds you, sweaty and biting curses into your palm, and the nurse asks who he is and he says “the fucking father.”
he stays the whole time — pacing, arms crossed, jaw locked. doesn't say much — just sharp nods when you cry out that you can’t do it, low grunts of “yes you can.” doesn’t hold your hand. but he stays.
he stares at them like they’re alien creatures, wrinkled and red and noisy, and he thinks fuck, he’s in it now.
a nurse hands one over, then the other. and he’s never held anything this small before. never held anything with such… complete fragility.
they’re warm and loud and his.
his chest tightens, not with panic. not even with regret. but something heavier. something… tethering. you’re half-asleep but watching him. he doesn’t meet your eyes. just looks down at the kids — the fucking kids — and mutters,
“…they’ve got your nose.”
and that’s how it starts. not with love, not with some grand revelation — just with curiosity turning into presence.
