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weekends with fratboy sukuna and his nephew yuji

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you wake up slowly.

not because of sunlight, or alarms, or even noise — but because of warmth. that steady, heavy kind that feels like it tethers you to the world instead of letting you float away.

you’re draped across sukuna like it’s your job. leg thrown over his waist, cheek pressed to his chest, his arm settled across your back like it’s instinct — like holding you is muscle memory, not choice.

he’s not fully awake either. you can tell by the way his breathing catches a little when you shift, like his body’s first reaction is where are you going? then the faintest drag of his palm over your spine, slow circles, half-asleep and thoughtless.

his tattoos are warm under your cheek. you can feel each rise and fall of his chest, each lazy heartbeat like he’s so peacefully alive underneath you it’s unfair. no frat king should look this soft at 8am on a saturday. and definitely not the one who swears he “doesn’t do attachment.”

he smells like soap and heat and a little like your shampoo because he always ends up stealing your pillow for a few minutes before bed, pretending it just fell that way.

you sigh in your sleep — one of those tiny relaxed ones you never notice — and it pulls him deeper. his fingers twitch on your hip, then settle again, tracing circles you never asked for but always melt under.

it’s stupid, how right this feels. his bare chest, your oversized shirt hanging off your shoulder because he tugged it down sometime in the night like he needed skin contact just to breathe. his leg hooked loosely over yours. his jaw against your hair. every line of him curved protectively around you like the world ends at the edge of his mattress.

if anyone walked in right now, they’d think you were his girlfriend.

funny, because the frat thinks that anyway.

you’re just… not. officially. technically.

anyway. you’re about to drift again — that is until.

SLAM.

the bedroom door cracks open like it was kicked by someone who’s never knocked in his life.

which is true, because it’s gojo.

“RISE AND SHINE LOVEBIRDS—”

sukuna’s eyes snap open. you tense. his arm tightens around you, protective and pissed in the same motion.

gojo freezes mid-dramatic pose. grins. wiggles eyebrows. “oooooh. morning cuddles? how domestic.”

sukuna groans. low, gravelly, annoyed. “get. out.”

gojo gasps like someone stole his purse. “is that how we greet our guests? i’m hurt. offended. emotionally bruised—”

“satoru.”

you bury your face in sukuna’s chest to hide your laugh. his hand slides instinctively to cradle the back of your head like you’re something precious, and you feel him catch himself at the softness of the gesture, jaw clenching like he wants to be unaffected but he’s so very not.

“fine,” gojo sighs dramatically, “but your nephew’s downstairs by the way.”

silence.

you can feel sukuna’s confusion. his brain is still half-booting and yet something is wrong because he sits up a little, careful not to jostle you.

“my what.”

his voice is deadly calm — the tone he reserves for when choso breaks a kitchen appliance or toji steals his pre-workout.

gojo beams. “yuji. tiny. pink hair. too pure for this household. remember?”

sukuna blinks. you blink.

then it hits him.

fuck my fucking chungus life

“shit.”

it's funny watching one of the strongest, cockiest guys you know face his greatest weakness.. forgotten family obligations.

you sit up slowly, tugging his shirt sleeve over your hand like a blanket.

“you forgot you were babysitting?”

he rubs a hand down his face. “i thought that was next weekend.”

gojo laughs. “nope. your brother’s here. kid’s in the living room. looks like a baby gym bro ready for his first protein shake and debut in the frat.”

sukuna doesn’t answer. he just swings his legs off the bed, hair messy, tattoos sharp against morning light, pajama pants hanging low on his hips — and he looks like someone who would never admit he’s nervous but definitely is.

his hand lingers at your back for a second like he’s checking you’re following.

you do. because you always do.

downstairs, yuji stands in the middle of the living room clutching a half-dragged white tiger plushie like it’s his lifeline. his tiny shoes are too clean for this house. his shirt has big red dog.. clifford on it. he has a pacifier, wide pink eyes, and the kind of hopeful smile that could fix the economy.

he sees sukuna, lights up like a sunrise, and waddles forward — then immediately trips, rights himself, and continues like a determined baby soldier on a mission.

sukuna freezes.

you watch him freeze.

it’s… adorable, actually.

this terrifying tattooed frat god has no idea how to hold his arms. he looks like someone handed him a live grenade covered in glitter.

yuji just presses his tiny hand to sukuna’s leg and beams.

“kuna,” he mumbles around his pacifier.

sukuna’s face cracks so fast it’s comical. like his heart forgot it’s supposed to be buried under six layers of death and gym playlists.

“…hey,” he says, and it’s so gentle you almost fall down the stairs. he picks yuji up awkwardly — like the kid is glass, or worse, precious — and yuji immediately snuggles into his chest like it’s home.

that’s when jin finishes handing off the diaper bag and waves like this is normal. “thanks again bro — we owe you big time. bye y/n! love the outfit by the way.”

you look down at the oversized grey shirt and massive sweatpants — both his — and suddenly feel matched with yuji's tiny grey outfit and tumbly toddler stance.

jin leaves. the door shuts. silence.

yuji swats at gojo’s hand as gojo tries to tickle him. gojo gasps like he’s been betrayed by his own disciple.

nanami sips his coffee in the kitchen like this is all beneath him.

you come down the stairs, hair messy, sleeves covering your hands, and yuji sees you — immediately reaching for you with grabby toddler hands like yes. mine now.

sukuna actually stares.

because yuji melts against you instantly, curling fingers in your shirt, pacifier bobbing as he sighs like he found his chosen parent.

“traitor,” sukuna mutters.

you smile. “he has taste.”

gojo throws a pillow. nanami catches it without looking. you don't question it.

yuji pats your cheek. you pat his back. sukuna watches like he’s witnessing something dangerous and soft and permanently altering.

and that’s how it starts.

with morning warmth, sleepy cuddles ripped away too soon, and a tiny kid choosing you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

and sukuna — tattooed, cocky, doesn’t-do-feelings sukuna — looking at you both like oh. oh no. i’m screwed.

the house is too loud for how early it is.

someone’s blender is going. toji is yelling about “who the hell put creatine in the dog bowl again?”* (there is no dog). geto is arguing with choso about why his herbal tea smells like it should be illegal (it probably is). nanami is reading the newspaper like he’s forty-nine and not a frat boy in finance.

you carry yuji against your hip, his tiny hand clutching your shirt like you might disappear if he lets go. he keeps looking around with those big pink eyes, curious and brave but also doing that toddler thing where he keeps checking your face to make sure everything’s okay.

you whisper, “big house today, huh?”

he nods very seriously like he understands the sociology of frathouse ecosystems. sukuna follows behind

not in a creepy way — in that way people do when they don’t want to look like they’re hovering but are definitely hovering. like he’s pretending he needs water but actually he just wants to stay close.

his hair’s still messy, tattoos catching lazy sunlight, pajama pants hanging low. he looks tired and unfairly good and a little overwhelmed by the existence of one small child.

gojo sees you and gasps dramatically.

“oh my god look — it’s mom and baby.”

sukuna throws a protein bar at him. misses completely.

gojo catches it anyway and winks. “jealous?”

“i will tape you to the ceiling,” sukuna mutters.

yuji pats your cheek. you bounce him gently. he squeaks a happy noise like you’re his personal sunshine.

you find cereal, fruit, a tiny cup left by jin. you put banana slices in front of yuji and he gasps like he’s been gifted gold.

“nana!” he announces to the room like this is a press conference.

everyone claps. you didn’t expect to wanting to either cry or laugh this early in the day but here we are.

sukuna watches you cut more fruit like you invented nutrition. his face is unreadable at first — then softens into something dangerous and warm. he leans against the counter, chest bare, mug in hand. his voice is low and rough from sleep.

“you always like kids?”

you shrug. “just this one so far.”

yuji claps like he agrees. you boop his nose. he giggles. sukuna looks away like watching that might kill him.

later, yuji ends up at the table with coloring pages someone magically produced (nanami, because he plans ahead and is secretly soft but will die before admitting it).

gojo sits on one side with a purple crayon. toji sits on the other, holding a blue one like it’s a weapon. yuji scribbles enthusiastically and both frat men visibly try to impress a two-year-old.

“look yuji,” gojo says proudly, holding up a horrifying lopsided cat. “kitty!”

toji scoffs, slides over his picture — shockingly good and detailed. “real kitty.”

yuji pauses, studies both like a tiny judge on a cooking show, then colors directly over both drawings with bright yellow.

gojo gasps. “his artistic vision!”

toji nods solemnly. “he sees the world beyond us.”

sukuna is leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, watching this chaos like he can’t believe these are his friends but also loves them in spite of it. he catches your eye. his expression says if you laugh at them, i’ll laugh too but you can never tell them that.

you do laugh.

he does too — quietly — like he only knows how when you’re around.

the grocery store trip is its own adventure.

yuji sits in the cart, tiger plush propped next to him like it’s riding shotgun. he kicks his little shoes happily every time you push the cart. sukuna walks beside you, hand occasionally brushing yours when you turn a corner. neither of you comment but both of you feel every accidental touch like it means something it shouldn’t.

some older woman passing by smiles at you three.

“beautiful family.”

you choke. sukuna freezes like he’s been sniped in the feelings. yuji squeals and throws a box of animal crackers into the cart like yes we ARE.

you try to laugh it off. sukuna clears his throat. his ears are pink.

no one corrects the woman.

the day is soft and long and comfortable in that way you don’t want to look at too closely yet. you feed yuji lunch. you wipe his cheeks. sukuna watches like he’s memorising every second and trying not to look like he is.

the sun sets slow, orange through the kitchen window. dinner smells like spices and warmth and someone burned something in another room but nanami fixed it, probably.

yuji sits curled into you on the big couch later, pacifier gently bobbing as he cuddles his tiger and your sleeve.

movie night.

everyone’s piled around — blankets, popcorn bowls, pillows, the whole frat pretending they’re not emotionally invested in a disney film.

yuji watches with big serious eyes, occasionally pointing at animals like they’re life-changing.

at one point, he softly taps your cheek, then pats your arm, then lifts his arms up with that tiny toddler insistence.

he wants up.

you don’t hesitate. you scoop him onto your lap, his arms wrapping around your neck, his cheek squishing into your shoulder like you’re the safest thing he knows.

sukuna, who’s next to you, notices instantly.

he goes quiet. too quiet. like his chest is too full.

a musical scene plays — soft, lilting, familiar. background chorus, warm strings, nostalgia in every note.

yuji wiggles. “pop pop?”

you grin. “okay. but you’re coming with.”

he nods like that was always the plan.

you move to the kitchen, him perched on your hip, tiny hand holding your shirt, tiger dangling from your other side. you sway without thinking — that natural bounce people use when holding babies — and yuji hums happily against you.

you grab popcorn, toss some kernels, the hum from the screen drifting into the kitchen as the song plays fuller.

you start singing quietly — not performing, not thinking — just soft humming, words slipping out like second nature. gentle. warm. nostalgia in your voice too somehow.

yuji relaxes against you like you're music incarnate.

you sway him. side to side. slow.

he giggles — that small breathy kind toddlers do when they're perfectly content.

what you don't see:

sukuna in the doorway.

he doesn't announce himself. he doesn't smirk or tease or swagger. he just stands there, shadows and warm kitchen light striping across his chest, arms loose at his sides like he forgot he had to pretend he didn't care.

gojo spots him, nudges him hard, waggles brows.

sukuna ignores him.

he watches you instead.

watches the way you sway like you're built for holding softness. watches the way yuji melts into you like he belongs there. his jaw tightens — not in anger, in something scarier. something hopeful.

something that feels like stay here.

he doesn’t say it yet. not out loud.

but it’s in the way his shoulders drop. in the way his eyes soften. in the way his heartbeat is too loud in his own chest.

he thinks, suddenly, terrifyingly clearly:

if this is what it feels like with you, i don’t want it to end.

the house finally starts to quiet down.

toji’s is gone (or pretending to be gone), choso and geto disappeared into some black hole of illegal stuff, gojo is half-asleep on the couch scrolling through something irrelevant, and nanami is watching the clock like a human sundial, muttering about how frat life is “an exercise in futility.”

yuji is still buzzing with tiny bursts of energy, holding his tiger like it’s a shield. you’ve got him perched on your hip, one arm under his legs, the other hand smoothing his messy hair, humming a quiet tune from the movie playing on the living room TV. the screen bathes the room in muted light, popcorn at your feet, a half-eaten bowl forgotten on the couch.

sukuna leans against the kitchen counter, eyes trained on you. he’s quiet tonight, shirtless, tattoos catching shadows from the overhead lights, sleeves of ink moving with the slight turn of his torso. his jaw is tight. his chest rises and falls like he’s breathing through something bigger than air.

you glance over your shoulder without thinking, catching him staring, and he ducks slightly, pretending to check a pot on the stove he isn’t even touching.

“you two look like you belong in a stock photo,” gojo whispers from the couch, wiggling his brows. yuji notices, his little hands tugging at your sleeve to hold on tighter.

you laugh quietly, patting yuji’s back. “stock photo, huh? more like a disaster waiting to happen.”

yuji giggles. you sway him gently, humming the soft melody of the scene, and he nestles into you. his tiny head rests against your collarbone, eyes half-closed in sleepy contentment. you hum louder, letting the music carry you both in the dim kitchen light.

sukuna doesn’t move. doesn’t speak. just watches.

and slowly, quietly, he steps closer.

before you notice, he’s behind you, one arm sliding around your waist, the other resting lightly on your hip. his chest presses against your back, his head falling into the crook of your neck. he smells like soap, warm skin, and the faint scent of your shared hoodie.

“stay for the weekend,” he murmurs, so low you almost don’t catch it. it’s not a request, not a command — just… an admission, soft and trembling at the edges.

you freeze for a heartbeat, feeling the tension in his body, the way he’s holding himself against you like he can’t let go. you sway a little more with yuji in your arms, humming softly, and he relaxes, nuzzling further, breathing matching your rhythm.

yuji squeaks happily, clutching your shirt with both hands. he watches the two of you, unaware of the layers of unspoken words and dangerous longing, just happy to be carried and sung to.

later, the two of you manage to get yuji into pajamas — white snoopy onesie with the words in red writing baby snoopy, red streak around his neck like a collar. he clutches his tiger like it’s his lifeline. you settle him onto the couch with nanami, who is reading a book but smiling softly at the scene, a knowing gleam in his eyes.

“they do it all the time,” nanami murmurs, more to yuji than anyone else. “they think no one notices, but they’re like an old couple.”

yuji tilts his head at the words, hugging his tiger closer, and points toward you and sukuna in the kitchen.

you’re standing there, music still playing softly from the movie. sukuna’s hand rests lightly on your hip, other hand tucked around your waist as you sway gently to the rhythm, alone in the kitchen, the world shrunk to a bubble of quiet warmth.

he watches your profile, the curve of your neck, the way your eyes close against your own hum. he swallows hard.

he doesn’t want this weekend to end. not with you. not ever.

after a while, you carry yuji to the lounge room set up to settle him into sleep, humming the same tune. he yawns, clinging to your chest, tiny arms around your neck, little tiger in one hand.

“goodnight, baby,” you whisper, kissing his forehead.

he refuses to sleep alone after the noises from toji’s room earlier — vague, muffled, frustratingly human noises that make even a toddler suspicious — so sukuna ends up on the floor next to the lounge, cross-legged, eyes half-closed, arm resting against your leg while you cradle yuji.

the three of you fall asleep in an improbable pile of warmth: toddler on your chest, you hugging him and leaning into sukuna’s side, sukuna resting against the couch cushions but alert to every tiny movement, protective in the quietest way possible.

when jin comes to pick yuji up the next morning, the little boy is still asleep, face nuzzled against your shoulder, tiger tucked under his arm. sukuna stands a few steps away, arms crossed, silently watching, stubbornly tired but impossibly alive in the soft domestic chaos.

he doesn’t speak. doesn’t have to.

the look he gives you as you hand yuji back, tiny fingers brushing yours, says everything:

stay. stay for more than a weekend...

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