୨୧ ― The playground falls silent when Sukuna’s shadow darkens the entrance.
Six foot four of raw muscle and barely contained violence, his black fitted shirt strained against broad shoulders. Scarred knuckles told stories of shattered jaws and walls alike. The tattoos that snake up his arms and across his face, ancient markings that ward away anyone foolish enough to cross him. Three prison stints. Fourteen confirmed hospitalizations of those who dared cross his path. And whispers… dark, unsettling rumors, of bodies that were never found.
But, cradled against his chest -those same hands that have crushed windpipes- holds his little girl, five years old with eyes just like his. She clutches her plastic watering can painted with daisies, her other hand firmly gripping Sukuna’s shirt like she’s taming a beast.
"Down Papa! My flowers are thirsty!!" she demands, completely unfazed by her father whose mere presence makes grown men piss themselves…
"Tch. Such a brat, just like your mother." Sukuna growls, the same tone that makes other parents clutch their kids a little tighter when he walks by, but the girl laughs and squeals with delight as he swings her around and sets her down.
The other parents keep their distance, their fear of Sukuna quite palpable, fueled by the whispers that cling to his name like a curse. But they watch- oh how they watch. Their eyes following him, as if expecting him to do something to prove the rumors true. Sukuna notices, a cruel smile splitting his face, revealing teeth, "What're you looking at?" he snarls at a gawking teenager, who stumbles backward in terror.
Their fear amuses him, but their opinions? Worthless.
He doesn’t care what they think, doesn’t care what they say.
He isn’t here for them anyway. He’s here for one reason, to make sure no one’s foolish enough to lay a hand on his little girl. If anyone dares, if anyone is stupid enough to try, they’ll see it firsthand. They’ll realize the stories don’t even scratch the surface. He’ll show them exactly why they should fear him- why calling him a monster is an insult to what he truly is.
"Papa! Look!" his little girl holds up a tiny daisy, "This one's for you! It's a gift, from me to you." She smiles at him, her eyes sparkling and full of love, as if he doesn’t scare the shit out of everyone else.
His face, usually frozen in a permanent scowl, softens imperceptibly, "Put it back in the ground, kid. Flowers need to grow..."
"Nooo," she pouts, "Mama gave me more seeds to plant and this one told me it wants to be with you!" She reaches up, impossibly small hand extended.
"Stubborn little-," he mutters as he crouches down, allowing her to tuck the flower behind his ear.
"See, now you're pretty just like the garden and mama!" She beams at him, her arms spread wide in a dramatic gesture of pride.
For a split second his eyes widen, surprised at the words coming out of her mouth. Pretty? Him? "I'm not pretty…" he growls, but doesn't remove the flower.
"You are to me," she says softly before wrapping her little arms around his neck, squeezing him tight and kissing him on his tatted cheek, "I love you, Papa."
Sukuna feels his heart skip a beat, then two, his throat tightening as the words leave his little brats lips. He can't bring himself to say it back- not here… He can't form the words he desperately wants to say…
Instead, his rough hands wrap around her, one hand on the back of her head, the other pressing her into his shoulder, "Yeah yeah…" His grip is gentle, almost tentative, like she might disappear if he squeezes too hard, "Me too…"
He feels her lips curl into a smile against him, and it's the only answer he needs. She understands, just like you do, the way he shows his love instead of saying it.
"C'mon," he ruffles her hair, "your mother will have my ass if I don't get us home." He takes her hand, fingers engulfing hers.
"Don't worry, Papa, the flowers will protect us!!"
As they walk home, her tiny hand disappearing in his massive one, Sukuna still wears the bloom behind his ear. A passing man stares a bit too long for Sukuna’s liking and receives a glare promising slow, creative violence if he doesn't look away immediately.
But his daughter just swings their joined hands, chattering about which seeds she'll plant next, completely unafraid of the monster whose reputation makes hardened criminals wake in cold sweats.
She is his one weakness, though he'd gut anyone who suggested it.
And he is her guardian- her hero, and she reminds him daily.
The fearsome Sukuna, brought to his knees by a little girl who talks to flowers.
