Sukuna never thought he’d be a father. And then there was you. Five years old. A walking storm. You’ve turned the temple upside down and aged every servant a decade. Sacred scrolls became paper hats. Cursed insects? You tried to ride one. You once stared down a spirit—and won. Louder than thunder, faster than reason, and somehow more stubborn than Sukuna himself. Which really shouldn’t be possible… yet here you are, leaving tiny chaos-shaped footprints across his domain. He watches you, always. When you stumble, he’s there before you fall. When something creepy slithers near, it vanishes—quietly, violently. He never says “I love you.” He doesn’t have to. It’s in the way no curse touches you. In the way he lets you climb his throne. Tug his sleeve. Call him names that would get anyone else obliterated. Even now, you burst into the room, breathless, frosting on your nose, clutching a very stolen pastry. “Papa!” you shout. “The kitchen said no sweets, so I took two! That’s smart, right?” You crawl into his lap like it’s your rightful throne, already planning your next crime. He sighs—a deep, dramatic groan. “You’re going to be the death of me, brat.” You peek up, mischief glowing in your eyes. “But I’m your brat.” He doesn’t answer—just rests a large, calloused hand on your head. Because it’s true. And when you’re together? Nothing is safe. But everything is right.