Znowu stałam się słaba

GOJO

this man acts like he’s been emotionally preparing for this moment her entire life —like he swore he’d be the “cool dad,” the kind that she could come to for anything… and yet the second she slams her door or rolls her eyes at him for the first time, his entire world collapses.

“what happened to my sweet little angel who used to braid my hair and call me her favorite person?” meanwhile, you're already trying to talk common sense into him like “satoru, she’s literally thirteen.” and he’s just standing there, dramatically holding his chest like she stabbed him with a blade.

the mood swings? yeah, he takes them personally at first. she huffs and stomps past him because he said no to a sleepover? he immediately drops to the floor like he’s been betrayed by fate itself. “she hates me. i failed as a father. she’s never gonna hug me again.” five minutes later she comes back because she forgot her phone, mutters a “love you,” and he’s instantly better like nothing ever happened.

when the actual puberty stuff hits — he is so not ready. he tries to be all confident, keyword being tries “soooo, kiddo, your body’s gonna do some, uh… weird stuff soon. totally normal. totally fine.” and he’s clearly just reciting something he found on the internet two minutes before.

he 100% googles “how to give your daughter the talk without dying” and probably watched a youtube video for moral support. halfway through, she’s already begging him “dad, please stop talking.” and he’s like, “no no, I’m doing great, see? we’re bonding. this is good parenting.”

you eventually have to step in before he starts explaining reproduction with cursed energy metaphors. “when two cursed users—” “satoru, no. get out."

the moment she mentions a boy, his Infinity activates on instinct. she’s like, “dad, someone at school said I was cute,” and he’s already at the door in his blindfold and uniform.

“oh? what’s their name? what’s their cursed technique? do they have health insurance?! do his parents have life insurance for him?" he’s that dad. absolutely will teleport to the school just to stand behind her in the hallway like a silent, glowing wall of menace

you have to physically stop him from scaring off every crush she’ll ever have. “satoru, she’s not dating. she’s making friends.” “friends? okay, yeah. friends don’t hold hands, y/n.” “they were literally high-fiving.”

but when she locks herself in her room crying over something dumb — he becomes a different kind of dad. the kind who sits outside her door, quietly saying, “you don’t have to talk, sweetheart, but I’m right here, okay? always.”

he will absolutely slide a chocolate bar and a goofy doodle of himself under the door. and later, when she finally opens it, he just wraps her up in a silent hug, cheek pressed to her head, because for all his noise and chaos, he knows when she just needs him to listen.

NANAMI

nanami handles it like it’s an upcoming work deadline — organized, emotionally prepared, but secretly panicking under the surface.

he’s known this day would come since the moment she was born, but still… when she suddenly starts slamming doors and saying “you don’t get me, dad,” he just stands there in the hallway like he's frozen “...you’re correct. i, in fact, do not get you.”

he doesn’t raise his voice. ever. he’ll just wait until she calms down, knock gently, and say, “we’ll talk when you’re ready.” he always sounds so composed that she ends up feeling guilty five minutes later

when the “birds and the bees” talk comes up, he actually plans it out. he’s the type to research “age-appropriate developmental conversations” and print out pamphlets from a medical website.

you end up finding them on the kitchen counter, already going to search for him “kento,- honey, are you making this a powerpoint presentation?” he looks up from his laptop, dead serious “i thought visual aids would make it clearer.”

he waits until a quiet saturday afternoon, makes tea for both of them, and sits across the table like it’s a business meeting. “this conversation may be uncomfortable, but it’s necessary. please feel free to ask questions.”

y'all's daughter is already dying inside, searching for an escape route, while you're already crouched, hiding in the hallway trying not to laugh.

the first time she mentions liking someone, his entire soul leaves his body. not outwardly — his face is perfectly calm — but internally he’s calculating every possible future in which this person could break her heart.

he’s at high alert, subtly background-checking without admitting it. “what’s his family name?” “dad.” “no, I’m simply curious about his… lineage.”

he won’t openly forbid her from seeing anyone. instead, he just shows up at pickup time in a perfectly tailored suit, silent, expression unreadable. the poor kid meeting him instantly questions their life choices. you later has to tell him, “Kento, you can’t intimidate them just by existing.” “i’m not intimidating. i was polite.” “you stared at him for twenty-seven seconds without blinking.” “that’s not intimidation. that is efficiency.”

when his daughter has a meltdown — hormones, stress, or just a bad day — he doesn’t lecture or ask questions. he just quietly makes her favorite food, leaves it by her door, and says: “you don’t have to talk, but I’d like you to eat something.”

he hates seeing her grow up, but never says it aloud. sometimes he’ll catch her in the kitchen, taller now, wearing one of your sweaters, humming a song she used to like as a child and it hits him like a quiet ache. she's growing up.

he’ll just murmur to you later that night, “i wish time slowed down for the good parts.”

GETO

geto acts like he’s completely unbothered. he is. that’s the first thing. he’s sitting there, sipping tea, completely calm when he hears yelling and groaning from the bathroom. “ah. the natural decay of innocence. fascinating.” meanwhile you're in the background whispering, “suguru, she’s just mad because we ran out of her favorite shampoo.”

when she starts rolling her eyes at him, he actually laughs. “oh? attitude? from my little girl?” she groans, stomps off, muttering “ugh, you’re so annoying,” and he just smiles — that soft, knowing kind of smile — because there it is. proof that she’s becoming her own person, fire and all.

the mood swings don’t faze him. not at all. he’s seen cursed spirits throw tantrums; a hormonal teenager isn’t going to break his calm.

if she snaps, he doesn’t snap back — he tilts his head, voice low, and says, “are you angry at me, or are you angry at yourself for feeling something you can’t name yet?”

she hates when he gets like that. philosopher mode. “dad, please don’t psychoanalyze me, i just didn’t want soup.”

when it’s time for the talk, he doesn’t approach it like a chore — he approaches it like a lesson. he’ll take her on a walk, somewhere quiet, the way he does when he wants her to listen. and in that calm voice of his, he'll say- “there are parts of growing up that will confuse you. things your body will do that your mind hasn’t agreed to yet. but that’s just change. and change doesn’t have to be ugly.”

she’s bracing herself for awkward dad talk, but instead, he gives her this strangely comforting honesty. “you’ll feel things you’ve never felt before — attraction, curiosity, fear. that’s human. the important thing is to know the kind of person you want to be before you let anyone touch the parts of you that matter.”

he does, however, slip in one geto classic line near the end deadpan, of course “and if any of those filthy little monkeys at school make you uncomfortable, let me know. i’ll handle it.”

he has zero patience for disrespectful boys. like, she brings home a classmate once — just a friend — and geto greets him at the door with the calmest voice imaginable: “ah, so you’re the brave monkey who thought he could enter my home.” the boy blinks, unsure if it’s a joke. it's not a joke. you immediately drag him to the kitchen, muttering, “stop terrorizing children, suguru.”

when she gets snappy or distant, he never punishes her for it. he’s patient in that quiet way that makes you feel seen even when you’re trying not to be. if she cries in her room, he’ll knock once and he'll just sit there, waiting.

he doesn’t give grand speeches about growing up. instead, he slips wisdom into small moments — brushing her hair, helping with her uniform, walking her to school. “people will try to make you smaller so they can understand you,” he tells her one morning. “don’t ever let them succeed.”

TOJI

toji knew this was coming, but he sure as hell didn’t prepare for it. he thought “puberty” meant, like, she’d get taller and moodier — not that one day she’d stomp past him with tears in her eyes and yell “you wouldn’t understand!” - and she’s right. he doesn’t.

he just stands there, staring at the wall like ? …what the hell did I do wrong this time?

he’s not the “talk it out” type. when she’s moody, he gives her space — not out of wisdom, but because he literally doesn’t know what to say.

she slams her door? cool. he goes to the kitchen, cooks dinner like nothing happened.

his love language becomes consistency. no lectures, no overcompensating — just: food’s on the table, the door’s unlocked, and he’ll walk her home no matter how mad she is.

you tease him for it constantly. “you know, most dads actually talk to their daughters.” “yeah? and most dads don’t have her attitude,” he grumbles, but there’s a faint smile tucked in there.

when it’s time for the talk… god help everyone. he absolutely tries to pass it off to you first. “that’s your territory. she’s a girl. you got this.” “toji, you can dismember a curse with your bare hands but you can’t say the word ‘period?’” “…yeah. exactly.”

you end up forcing him to do it anyway, so he sits his daughter down at the table, looking like he’s about to confess to a crime. “look, kid… your body’s gonna start doing weird stuff. don’t freak out. it’s normal. and, uh… if some punk tries to get too close, i’ll handle it.” she’s horrified with no hesitation. “dad, stop.” “I’m serious. I’ve got a shovel.” “DAD—”

boys. just. boys. she mentions one, once, and he goes dead silent. no expression, no comment — just a long, unsettling stare. “...you gonna tell me his name?” “no.” “smart girl.”

if he ever meets one, his handshake feels like a threat. “you got a curfew?” “uh, yeah, sir.” “good. make sure you keep it, or I’ll make it permanent.”

despite the chaos, he notices everything. she doesn’t have to tell him when she’s upset — he can tell by how she picks at her food or avoids eye contact. he won’t ask. he just puts her favorite snack next to her homework and grunts, “eat.” - sometimes, that’s all it takes.

and yeah, sometimes he screws up — says the wrong thing, gets impatient, forgets how fragile she feels. but he always circles back later, rubbing the back of his neck, muttering, “i didn’t mean to snap at you, kid. i just… don’t want you hurt, alright?”

when she’s asleep, he sometimes stands in the doorway, arms crossed, face unreadable. she looks so small again, curled under the blanket — the same way she did when he used to carry her home on his shoulders. it hits him hard. she’s growing up, he thinks. too damn fast.

he will pull the blanket higher, sighing and muttering under his breath, “no matter how old you get, i’ll still break anyone who makes you cry.”

SUKUNA

the change in her temper is the first thing he notices. sharper tongue. eyes that don’t drop anymore. she glares back now. and instead of anger, he feels something strange crawl up his spine — amusement. “so the brat finally has teeth,” he murmurs. “good. the world eats the gentle.”

sukuna doesn’t do comfort. he does silence — the kind that fills a room until you forget to breathe. when she storms away, he doesn’t follow.

when she slams the door, he just smirks. he knows that eventually she’ll come back to test if he’s still there. and he always is. unmoved. constant. terrifyingly patient. is he though?

when her moods swing from fury to tears, he doesn’t soothe; he observes. “the blood stirs. chaos lives in it,” he says once, almost softly. she doesn’t understand what he means, but she feels the strange pride in his tone.

the talk happens by accident. she’s already flustered enough, trying to ask you, her mother, questions, and sukuna walks in, sensing the embarrassment like blood in water. “so the body begins to wake,” he says, voice a low rumble.

you're already rolling your eyes and groaning. “sukuna, please—” he's already cutting you off, eyes gleaming “there is power in it. life trying to multiply itself. do not be ashamed of power.”

it’s not tender, but it’s honest — in his own twisted way, he tells her that growing up isn’t weakness; it’s proof she’s becoming something formidable.

if anyone at school dares make her uncomfortable, word spreads fast that her father is not human. no one knows what he is — only that a single glare from him makes your knees lock up.

you're already glaring at him telling him not to scare children. he smiles, all teeth “i didn’t touch them. fear does the work for me.”

his version of parenting is brutal self-honesty. when she yells “you don’t love me!” he doesn’t deny it — he simply says, “love is a mortal word. but you are mine. that should be enough.” somehow, she believes him. because with Sukuna, possession means protection; it’s the closest thing he has to affection.

sometimes, though, he watches her when she isn’t looking. how she moves through the world, unafraid despite the monster that raised her. and there’s a flicker — a ghost of something almost gentle — before he smothers it. he won’t let softness ruin her. or him.

late one night, she sits beside him, tired from crying over something she won’t say. he doesn’t ask. he just offers a quiet, “the pain means you’re alive. don’t run from it.”

CHOSO

poor choso… he panics at the first sign of change. she snaps at him once and he’s immediately wondering what he did wrong “did i… do something wrong?” you have to gently explain, “no, sweetheart, she’s just growing up.” and he takes that so literally that he starts researching puberty in scrolls and books, muttering to himself about “hormonal fluctuations” like it’s a curse symptom.

he’s the kind of dad who knocks every single time before entering her room, even if the door’s open. “may I enter?” “yeah, dad.” he steps in like he’s crossing sacred ground, holding her laundry as if it’s an offering. “i folded your clothes.” “...thanks, dad.” he smiles, relieved, like he just passed a social test.

when her mood swings start hitting, he’s so confused but never takes it personally. she rolls her eyes, mutters “you wouldn’t get it,” and storms off —and he just stands there in the hallway, hand halfway raised, whispering, “...she’s right. I don’t.”

he absolutely tries to give her “the talk” himself — because he thinks it’s his responsibility as her father. he sits her down at the table, completely serious, hands clasped. “your body is changing. this is… a natural human function. it may be uncomfortable, but it means you are healthy.”

she’s already mortified, head buried in her arms. he keeps going, bless him. “there may also be emotional changes. that is also… normal. if you ever need—” “dad, please stop.” "i’ve upset you. i- im sorry.”

boys? oh god. she mentions one classmate’s name and he immediately memorizes it. “what is his family history?”

he’s so polite about it, but there’s murderous intent behind his calm tone. you have to constantly remind him that glaring at her friends counts as intimidation. he looks genuinely surprised. “i was only assessing their aura.” “you were bleeding cursed energy, choso.” “…ah. that explains the screaming.”

despite all the awkwardness, he’s incredibly gentle and emotionally present. she doesn’t even have to ask — he just knows when she needs him close. if she’s curled up in bed after a bad day, he’ll quietly sit on the floor beside her, humming lowly, “you don’t need to explain. I can just stay.” and he will. for hours, if that’s what it takes.

when she gets her first period, you're out shopping — and choso finds her crying in the bathroom, terrified. he immediately kneels beside her, panic written all over his face: “you’re bleeding—! are you hurt?!” “n-no, it’s normal!” “…it is?” “yes!” he blinks, processing, then nods solemnly. “…good, your mother handled this.”

he treats her growing up like something sacred — because to him, it is. he’ll look at her across the dinner table sometimes and go quiet, expression softening. “you remind me of what I could have been,” he says one night. she frowns, “what do you mean?” “someone who grew safely. someone who got to be young.” she doesn’t know what to say — so she just hugs him. he freezes, then melts into it, arms wrapping around her so carefully, like she’s the most fragile, precious thing in the world.

he’s awkward, overprotective, and way too formal sometimes, but when she’s finally calm again, when the tears are gone and she’s resting against his chest, he’ll whisper into her hair: “you’re allowed to change. i will love you through all of it.”

Niż ten cały świat, wszyscy ludzie i moje własne szczęście