when dadkuna gets the call that his son’s suspended for fighting at school
the call hits at 3:17 pm. the school number on the cracked screen of your phone. you swipe to answer before it can ring twice.
“mrs. ryomen? we need either you or your husband to come down to the office. your son was involved in a physical altercation. he’s suspended for three days pending further review. he’s waiting here now.”
you press two fingers to the bridge of your nose, already feeling the headache bloom. “wha—okay. we’ll be there in twenty.”
sukuna’s in the garage, hunched over the old harley he’s been rebuilding for months. black tank clinging to his back from the heat, grease streaked across his forearms where his tattoos peek out. he doesn’t look up when you step into the open bay.
“hey kuna?” you softly call, “school called.”
he keeps wiping the carburetor with a shop rag. “what now.”
“he got into a fight and they’re suspending him. we have to go pick him up.”
the rag stops mid-motion. his jaw flexes once, visible even from the side. “he start it?”
“they didn’t say over the phone.”
“figures.” he tosses the rag onto the cluttered workbench. his tools scattered, half-empty beer can sweating beside a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “let’s go.”
the drive is quiet except for the sound of the truck and sukuna's knuckles white on the wheel. you know better than to fill the silence with platitudes. he hates that shit.
ren, your son, is slouched in one of the orange plastic chairs bolted to the wall outside the principal’s door. his split lip already swelling, fresh bruise blooming purple under his left eye, knuckles split and crusted. blood’s dried in a thin line down the front of his gray hoodie. he looks up when the door swings open, meets sukuna’s stare straight on. no ounce of apology in his eyes. just the same stubborn set to his mouth you’ve seen a thousand times in the mirror.
he was looking exactly like sukuna at that age in the old photos you've seen.
not only does he look like his dad, he for sure got his temper too.
"you better have a damn good reason." sukuna stops in the doorway, boots planted. “what the fuck happened.”
“some kid wouldn’t shut up about mom,” ren says, “said shit i wasn’t about to let stand, so i handled it.”
ahhh fortunately for him, that's enough of an excuse to sukuna.
you feel sukuna’s temper rise and you just sigh knowing he’ll most likely tolerate this behavior again. you move first, moving pass them into the principal’s office ready to get this over with so you can have a talk with your son properly.
the principal’s a nervous-looking guy in a polyester suit two sizes too big. he looks ridiculous, you and sukuna once had a good laugh talking about him. he stands when you enter. sukuna follows, shoulders filling the narrow doorway. he doesn’t sit. just crosses his arms and leans against the wall, tattoos catching the harsh overhead light.
he clears his throat twice. “mr. and mrs. ryomen thank you for coming so quickly.”
sukuna stays silent as the principal fidgets with a pen.
“your son initiated the physical contact,” he starts. “the other student sustained a mild concussion. we’re recommending–”
“he said something about my wife,” sukuna interrupts. "that true or what?"
the principal lets out a nervous chuckle. “be that as it may, we maintain a zero-tolerance policy toward violence–”
sukuna’s voice cuts in again, “say that part again. what exactly did the other kid say about her?”
the room goes still, you don’t know whether to feel embarrassed or proud that both your husband and son are standing up for you like this. ren shifts his weight, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum.
“called her a gold digger,” ren says. “said she only married you for the cash and that you’re just some ex-con tattoo artist who knocked her up... that pissed me off."
sukuna’s gaze flicks to you for half a heartbeat. you shake your head the smallest amount—no. he exhales loudly, the frustration in him growing more.
“so my kid put his hands on a loudmouth who was talking shit about his mother,” sukuna says. “and you’re punishing him for it.”
“school policy is clear—”
“your policy’s obviously shit.” sukuna pushes off the wall. “you let these kids talk whatever trash they want all day, but the minute someone actually responds, you clutch your pearls?”
“mr. ryomen, i’m going to have to ask you to—”
“me and my husband understand the suspension. we’ll take him home. do we need to sign anything?”
the principal hesitates, then slides the forms across the desk. you sign quick while sukuna keeps staring at the motivational poster on the wall like he’s imagining putting a fist through it.
the parking lot’s baking under the late-afternoon sun, shadows stretch long and jagged from the chain-link fence and the row of staff cars, a couple seagulls wheel overhead, crying once before banking toward the football field. the truck chirps twice when sukuna thumbs the fob, the doors unlock with that familiar pop.
sukuna's ready to hear whatever lecture you have to give this time.
“backseat, ren,” you say flatly.
he doesn’t argue. he ducks his head and slides into the back without a sound. the leather creaks under your guys weight as sukuna fires the engine.
“you don’t get to decide what’s worth fighting over at school,” you start. “i don’t care what he said about me. you don’t put your hands on someone because words hurt your feelings. that’s not how this works.”
ren stares down at the rubber floor mat.
“you’re grounded. two weeks. no phone, no going out, no friends over. you come straight home after school when the suspension’s up. you do your work, you help around the house, and you think about why throwing punches isn’t a solution. clear?”
ren nods once, slow. “yeah.”
he lifts his eyes just enough to meet yours in the rearview. “it’s clear. i’m grounded two weeks. no phone, no nothing.”
you hold his gaze another second, then turn back forward. “good.”
the rest of the drive unspools in thick silence. traffic thins as you leave the school zone, the sun dipping low enough that the dashboard glows faintly orange. you keep your eyes on the road, fingers laced loosely in your lap, while sukuna’s grip on the wheel stays steady but no longer bone-white.
when the truck finally rolls into the driveway, sukuna kills the engine with a twist of the key. the sudden quiet is awkward.
you unbuckle first, turning halfway in your seat. “i’m starting dinner. kuna,” you pause facing your husband, “talk to him.”
sukuna exhales through his nose when you enter the house. he reaches over and twists the key back just enough to kill the accessory power, plunging the cabin into near-darkness except for the faint streetlight spilling through the windshield.
ren’s voice comes out low, a little nervous now that it's just his dad with him, “you mad at me?”
sukuna laughs in response. “mad?” he echoes. “nah, not mad. you did what you had to do.”
“kid talked shit about your mom,” sukuna continues, “you handled it. part of me gets that—hell, most of me does. but your mother just laid it out plain, she's right, you don’t swing first at school. not because defending family is wrong. because getting caught makes it useless. next time you decide something’s worth handling, make sure no one sees. or better yet, walk away and deal with it where cameras don’t reach and mouths don’t run to teachers.”
ren nods slowly, throat working like he’s swallowing everything he wants to say. “she’s pissed.”
“she’s pissed because she doesn’t want you turning into me at sixteen.” sukuna finally flicks his eyes to the rearview mirror, meeting ren’s gaze head-on. “look just take the grounding, do the time, don’t argue with her. she’ll cool off faster that way.”
ren rubs his jaw, careful around the swelling bruise. “yeah… okay. i get it, thanks dad.”
sukuna pops his door open, the dome light flooding the cab with weak yellow. “come on. go help her with whatever she’s doing in there and ice that face before it swells completely shut.”
ren climbs out first, shoulders hunched a little like the weight of the day is still sitting on them. sukuna follows a second later, pocketing the keys as he exhales once more.
later that night when the house quiets down, ren’s already shut himself in his room, lights off early for once.
you and sukuna are both in bed too.
sukuna’s sprawled face-down on the mattress, shirt gone, the wide map of his back exposed.
he groans low when you climb onto the bed behind him, knees bracketing his hips. your hands settle between his shoulder blades first, thumbs digging slow circles into the knots that live there permanently.
“fuck—right there,” he mutters into the pillow.
massaging him is one of the routines you guys do before sleeping, sukuna claims it completes his day no matter how shitty it went.
you keep the pressure steady, working down the length of his spine. the room smells faintly of his soap and the arnica gel you rubbed into ren’s face earlier.
after a minute you lean forward, hair brushing his shoulder.
“sooo you two talk in the truck?”
your palms slide up to his traps, kneading deeper. “and???”
“told him he did good putting the kid in his place.” sukuna shifts his head to the side so he can talk properly. “but that he can’t be dumb about it next time. school cameras, witnesses, snitches—whole system’s built to catch the guy who actually swings. told him if he’s gonna handle shit, handle it clean. or don’t handle it at all.”
you pause for half a second, glaring at him. “so you basically told him it’s fine to fight… just don’t get caught.”
he snorts. “i told him reality ain’t the same as the lecture you gave. sweetheart, you want him safe and i want him smart. both can be true.”
your hands start moving again, tracing the ridges of muscle along his ribs. “you’re enabling him.”
“i’m not telling him to start fights.” sukuna turns his head the other way, cheek pressed flat to the pillow so he can see you out of the corner of his eye. “i’m telling him the world doesn’t run on zero-tolerance posters. kid talks about you like that again? someone’s gonna feel it. might as well be someone who knows how to throw properly. i just don’t want him suspended every other week or expelled before he graduates.”
you press your thumbs into the base of his skull, he hisses softly, sounding pleased.
“he looks so much like you in those old pictures now,” you say quieter.
“he’s got your eyes though. softer when he’s not pissed. he’ll figure it out.”
you lean down, lips touching the warm skin behind his ear. “you really not mad at him?”
“nah.” his voice drops lower. “‘m feeling proud. some punk runs his mouth about my wife and my kid lays him out without blinking? that’s blood. that’s mine.” he exhales again. “but i hate seeing his face fucked up. hate even more that he’s gonna carry my reputation around like a target. they already look at him sideways because of me.”
your hands slide down his arms now, working the tension out of his forearms, the same ones that were covered in grease earlier. “he’s not you at sixteen. he’s got us. both of us.”
sukuna turns over suddenly. quick enough that you have to brace on his chest to keep balance. he catches your wrists and tugs you down until you’re half sprawled across him. his eyes flick over your face, looking tired.
“c’mere,” he mutters, already reaching. "didn't i just get lucky?"
his hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers curling into your hair just enough to guide you down. he pulls you in like it’s the most natural thing after a day like this.
the kiss lands soft, lips pressing slow against yours. you taste the faint mint from the gum he was chewing earlier, mixed with whatever’s left of the day on his breath. his other arm loops around your lower back, palm flat and heavy, dragging you closer until there’s no space left.
your chest against his, heartbeat thumping steady under your hand.
he angles his head to deepen the kiss. tongue brushes yours lazily like he’s savoring it, you feel his fingers tighten slightly in your hair before loosening again.
you pull back after a minute, just enough to breathe. noses still touching, foreheads pressed.
he doesn’t open his eyes right away. just stays close, breathing you in.
his thumb strokes along your jaw then he leans up and kisses you again. it's shorter this time like he’s saying shut up and stay here. lips linger a second longer before he drops his head back to the pillow with a tired exhale.
arms stay wrapped around you, one hand settling low on your back, the other still loosely in your hair.
“stop thinking about it, kay? he’ll be alright,” he says eventually. “yer a great mom and 'm trying not to screw up too. he got time to fuck up and figure it out. more than i ever did.”
A/N: genuinely. what is this. art by _avecot on x. also vote
