you don’t react. you’re used to it by now.

sukuna notices anyway.

you feel it in the way his gaze moves, slow and deliberate as it drags across the room, taking everything in without needing to focus on anything for long. parents sitting in small groups, a teacher organizing papers near the front, a couple of people whispering just a little quieter than before. his expression doesn’t change, but there’s a sharpened awareness in his eyes, something quiet and assessing.

he leans slightly closer to you, voice low enough that it stays between you.

“why are they staring.”

you bite back a smile, keeping your tone light.

“they’re not staring.”

he looks at you like you’ve said something objectively incorrect.

“they are,” he says, quieter now, like he’s working it out in real time. his gaze flicks briefly toward someone across the room before returning to you. “is it the hair?”

you glance up at him, and this time you can’t help the small laugh that slips out.

“yeah,” you nod, playing into it easily. “definitely the hair.”

his eyes narrow just slightly, like he knows you’re brushing it off but isn’t sure if it’s worth pushing. after a second, he exhales through his nose, dismissing it, and lets you guide him further into the room.

you find two open seats near the middle. not too close to the front where everything feels too focused, but not far enough back to feel disconnected—and sit down, placing your things neatly in your lap. sukuna lowers himself into the chair beside you, the movement controlled but heavy enough that it draws a brief glance from someone nearby. his legs stretch out instinctively before he pulls them back in slightly, adjusting to the cramped space of a classroom desk that clearly wasn’t designed with him in mind.

he looks out of place.

not in a way that’s loud or disruptive, but in the way something too large, too contained, doesn’t quite fit into a structured environment like this. like he belongs somewhere less restricted, less… ordinary.

you smooth your hands over your lap, glancing toward the front where the teacher continues setting up.

“see?” you murmur quietly. “not so bad.”

he doesn’t answer right away. his gaze drifts lazily across the room again, slower this time, like he’s cataloging things out of habit.

“we’ll see,” he says eventually.

a few minutes pass like that, the room gradually filling, conversations settling into a steady hum. then, beside you, sukuna shifts. the movement is subtle but deliberate, and before you can ask, he’s already pushing himself up from the chair.

“i’ll be back.”

you glance up at him. “bathroom?”

he gives a small, noncommittal hum and heads toward the door without waiting for anything else.

you watch him go for a second, the way people instinctively move just slightly out of his path without realizing it, before turning your attention back to the front. it’s easier to settle without him beside you, the space feeling lighter, more in line with everything around you.

for a moment, it’s normal.

then-

“first time here?”

the voice comes from your side, close enough to pull your attention immediately. you turn slightly to see a man sliding into the now-empty seat beside you, offering a small, easy smile that feels practiced.

“yeah,” you nod politely. “first time.”

“same,” he says, leaning back just enough to look relaxed. “guess they’re trying something new this year.”

you hum in agreement, keeping your tone light but neutral. it’s a normal conversation, harmless on the surface, the kind of small talk that happens in spaces like this.

“your kid in this class too?” he asks.

“yeah.”

“nice,” he nods, glancing toward the front before looking back at you. “mine too. small world.”

you offer a small smile, but your answers stay short, contained. there’s nothing overtly wrong with the interaction, nothing you can point to and say it crosses a line, but there’s a shift in his tone, a slight warmth that feels just a bit too familiar for a stranger. the way he lingers in conversation, the way his body angles a little more toward you, like he’s trying to hold your attention. you shift slightly in your seat, hoping it signals enough.

it doesn’t.

“so, do you-”

“is there a reason you’re sitting here.”

the voice cuts in cleanly.

low, controlled in a way that doesn’t need volume to carry weight.

you don’t have to turn to know sukuna is back.

the man beside you stills immediately, the shift in his posture almost instant as he turns slightly toward the voice. sukuna stands just behind your chair, one hand resting loosely against the back of it, his gaze fixed on him with a quiet intensity that presses without raising.

“oh- i was just-” the man starts, a little too quick now, a little less confident.

sukuna tilts his head slightly, like he’s considering the answer before it’s even finished.

“just what.”

it’s calm. almost neutral. but there’s something under it, something that doesn’t need to rise to be felt.

the man lets out a small, awkward laugh, shifting in his seat.

“just talking. didn’t mean anything by it.”

“clearly.”

the word lands flat, unimpressed. sukuna’s gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t soften, just holds steady long enough for the silence to stretch in a way that feels heavier than it should in a room like this.

you can feel it settle.

the man definitely does.

“i-uh, i think i see someone i know,” he says suddenly, already pushing himself up from the chair. “nice talking to you.”

he doesn’t wait for a response. just moves quickly, slipping into the crowd of other parents with a little too much urgency.

the space beside you feels noticeably quieter.

sukuna watches him go for a moment longer before pulling his hand back and lowering himself into the seat beside you like nothing happened. his posture relaxes again, one arm resting loosely against the back of your chair now, claiming the space without drawing attention to it.

he glances at you, expression unchanged.

“why’d he run off like that?” he says, tone dry. “thought i was being nice.”

you stare at him for a second, then let out a soft laugh, shaking your head slightly.

“it’s probably the pink hair.”

there’s a brief pause.

then, just barely, the corner of his mouth lifts.

not quite a smile.

but close enough.

more papa!kuna here

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series taglist: open

toji towers over you the same as always—broad shoulders blocking out half the sky, scarred forearms bracketing you like a fortress. at six months pregnant, you still feel small against him, just the way you did the first time he lifted you clean off your feet in a moonlit alley and carried you toward freedom.

toji huffs a laugh and the sound vibrates through you. “trouble’s already here. married it. gave it my last name and everythin’.”

you reach up and thread your fingers through the dark hair at his nape. he lets it grow longer out here. no more sharp cuts, just soft black strands that curl against his collar when he forgets to tie them back.

you tug lightly, “you’re the one who keeps checking the ridge line every sunset like you expect a posse.”

“old habits,” toji shrugs. one massive hand slides forward, covering yours where it rests on your stomach. his palm swallows both your hand and part of the curve of your belly, “new ones too.”

the baby rolls under the pressure, a slow, lazy somersault that makes you suck in a breath. toji goes still.

“again?” he murmurs.

you nod, “she likes your voice.”

toji lets out a low disbelieving sound. like he still can’t quite believe anything this soft belongs to him. slowly and carefully, he turns you in his arms until you face him. even on the raised porch you have to tip your head way back to meet his green eyes. those eyes that still carry that dangerous glint when he looks at the rest of the world—but never at you.

not anymore.

toji sinks to one knee without warning, bringing his face level with your stomach. one scarred hand splays wide over the swell, thumb brushing back and forth like he’s petting something wild and precious.

“hey, little terror,” he says, deep voice pitched softer than you’ve ever heard it in the old days, “you plannin’ to keep kickin’ yer mama all night, or ye gonna let her sleep?”

another kick—harder this time. right against his palm.

toji’s mouth curves, slow and crooked. “yeah. that’s what i figured.”

he leans in and presses his lips to the taut skin just above your navel through the thin cotton of your dress. a kiss so gentle it barely stirs the fabric. then another. and another. like he’s counting blessings he still doesn’t think he deserves.

you comb your fingers through his hair again, holding him there, “you’re gonna spoil her rotten before she’s even born.”

“damn right.” he doesn’t look up, just rests his forehead against you, eyes closing. “gotta make up for all the years i spent bein’ the worst kind of man.”

the wind moves through the cottonwoods, carrying the scent of dry grass and distant rain. somewhere in the pasture one of the horses nickers. ordinary sounds. safe sounds. so unlike the ones you’ve been used to hearing ever since a year ago.

you bend as far as your changing center allows and kiss the top of his head. a small gesture back.

“you’re not that man anymore,” you whisper.

toji exhales. when he finally stands he pulls you against him—careful, always careful now—chin resting on your crown.

“maybe not,” he murmurs, the words vibrating against your scalp. “but i’ve got enough scars and enough stubborn left to make damn sure nothin’ ever touches either of ya. and enough sense now to know that’s all i want.”

you tilt your face up. your cheek slides against the worn flannel of his shirt until you can press a soft kiss to the underside of his jaw.

“awww, my big, scary rancher,” you giggle, letting the tease curl warm between you.

toji lets out a rough chuckle, amused at the way you always know just what to say to tease him, “mhm. scary’s still on the table if anyone comes lookin’.”

his free hand drifts down, palm flattening over the curve of your belly again. his thumb sweeps in lazy, protective arcs. the baby answers with a quick flutter, like she’s agreeing.

toji’s low voice drops even quieter, “you two are the only soft thing i’ve ever been allowed to keep. ain’t lettin’ the world or anyone take that away.”

you slip both arms around his waist as far as they’ll go and squeeze, “then keep holding on tight. we’re not going anywhere.”