suku-enthusiasts

[suku-enthusiasts]

chapter four || Hiromi Higuruma

hiromi higuruma x f!reader

❝She vanished in daylight—taken, ravaged, discarded like ruin. Six months later, she returned, bones trembling beneath borrowed skin, love a distant memory. But he waited. With quiet hands and a shattered heart, Hiromi held her through the wreckage. This is not a story of rescue. It’s a story of what remains when horror ends—of bleeding love, haunted silence, and a woman learning to live inside her body again.❞

cw ; smut. abuse. sex trafficking. heavy. TW. smut consensual. manipulation. ptsd. soft hiromi.

word count ; 4.1k

masterlist | series masterlist | next

It had been three months.

Ninety-one days since you’d woken in a sterile room with cords taped to your skin and a name in your mouth that you barely believed was yours. The bruises had faded. The scabs had closed. The IVs were gone. You had color in your face again, and your weight—slowly, carefully—had returned to something close to what it once was. But your eyes remained quieter. Your voice, too.

You still didn’t speak much. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t ask to see Mei.

Hiromi never pushed.

He came every morning and every evening. Sometimes with food, sometimes just with his presence. He brought you books you couldn’t finish, soft blankets that smelled like home, socks with little peaches on them because he remembered once—once—you said they were your favorite fruit. Sometimes, he just sat beside your bed and read aloud from the newspaper, pretending the world wasn’t still searching for a man named Toji Fushiguro.

The police hadn’t found him.

Not yet.

The world outside your window still had monsters.

But here—within these walls, in the quiet rhythm of each day—you were alive. And healing. Slowly. Gently. As best as anyone could after being shattered. You sat up in bed that morning, your legs folded beneath the blanket. You wore your peach sweater—washed so many times it had grown soft around the edges—and watched Hiromi fuss with the hospital bed controls like he hadn’t already memorized them months ago.

“Blanket keeps slipping,” he muttered, smoothing it across your lap. “I told them this bed leans too far to the left.” You tilted your head slightly, eyes following his hands. You didn’t stop him. You never did. His fingers brushed your wrist briefly—by accident—but your body no longer recoiled. Not from him. Not anymore.

That was something.

The door opened a moment later with a soft knock, and Dr. Ishikawa stepped inside. Hiromi straightened, immediately on alert. Three months of news, good and bad, had trained him to brace for both.

But the doctor was smiling today.

A warm, kind smile.

And something in Hiromi’s chest loosened.

“Good morning,” the doctor greeted. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.” Hiromi shook his head. “She was just letting me scold her blanket.”

The doctor chuckled, then turned his attention to you. “Y/N… I have some good news.” Your fingers twitched in your lap. “You’re being discharged this afternoon.” You blinked, not because you didn’t understand. But because the words felt surreal. Untouchable. Like hearing a story that happened to someone else. Dr. Ishikawa’s voice softened. “You’re healthy. Medically, you’ve made a remarkable recovery. Your vitals have been stable for over a month, and your appetite and strength have returned. You’ll continue with psychiatric outpatient treatment—same team, same structure—but…” He smiled again. “You can go home.” Hiromi turned to look at you, his breath catching in his throat.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t speak.

You just sat there, holding the moment in your hands like it might shatter.

Home.

You hadn’t said that word aloud in months.

Dr. Ishikawa continued gently. “We’ve arranged for a quiet exit. No press, no complications. Your mother’s already at the house preparing your room, and Hiromi’s been cleared as your medical proxy to continue monitoring your care.” You turned toward Hiromi. He was standing perfectly still, but you could see it in his face—the way his throat bobbed, the way his hands curled in his pockets like he didn’t trust them to stay still.

“I’ll let you both take your time,” the doctor said quietly, and slipped out.

The silence that followed was thick, but not heavy.

Just full.

Hiromi moved first. Sat slowly on the edge of the bed, close—but not too close. “They said you’re ready,” he murmured. “But only if you feel ready.” You stared at your hands, then, barely above a whisper—  “I don’t know what home is anymore.” Hiromi didn’t flinch. “I’ll remind you,” he said softly. “As many times as it takes.” You looked at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, but steady. His face was unshaven, his clothes slightly wrinkled, but to you—he looked like something ancient and familiar. Like the moon through a fogged window. Constant. Quiet. Yours. 

After a long pause, you asked— “Will Mei be there?” Hiromi nodded once. “She’s been waiting. Every day.” Your throat tightened, you looked back at the window and for the first time, you didn’t feel trapped by it. You felt like maybe—just maybe—it was okay to walk through the door when it opened and let the world meet you again.

The car ride home was quiet. Hiromi kept one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the console beside you—never touching, but close enough that if you needed him, all you had to do was lift your fingers. The world outside the window had shifted in your absence. The trees along the side streets had changed their colors twice since the last time you saw them. The bakery on the corner had a new sign. The park near your home now had a new bench with fresh paint and yet, it was all somehow the same. You sat wrapped in your peach sweater, your hospital discharge bag tucked between your feet. You hadn’t spoken since stepping out into the air. It had been cold at first—too sharp. Then soft. Then warm. Like the world wasn’t sure what season it should be anymore.

Much like you.

Hiromi pulled into the driveway slowly.

The house stood there like a quiet memory. Still soft around the edges. Still waiting. Your mother had left the porch light on, even though it was still daylight.

Hiromi parked. Turned off the engine.

His voice was low. Careful.

“She’s inside. She’s been drawing pictures all morning. She asked if she should make you a welcome sign, but your mom said you might get overwhelmed and cry, and Mei said, ‘That’s okay, I’ll cry too.’” You smiled faintly, it broke your heart. “I don’t know what to say,” you whispered.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he replied. “She’ll know you’re home.” You opened the car door with shaky fingers, the walk to the front door felt like it took a lifetime, the porch creaked under your feet and then the door opened.

It was Kaede who greeted you—her smile soft, her eyes already filled with tears. She stepped aside quickly, giving you space, giving you time and then you saw her. Tiny socked feet skidding on the hardwood. Brown curls longer now—tied in two low ponytails with mismatched ribbons.

Green eyes bright and wide, rounder somehow, and filled with joy so big it couldn’t fit inside her little body. She paused at the edge of the hallway, frozen for a split second, then her mouth broke into the biggest smile you’d ever seen.

“MAMA?!” Your knees buckled, she ran. No hesitation. No fear. “Mama, Mama, Mama—!” She slammed into you with all the force of a four-year-old missile, wrapping her arms around your legs before you could even crouch down. Her face pressed into your hip, fingers gripping tight.

You sank to your knees slowly, hands shaking as you reached out, your arms went around her like they never forgot how and then—your voice broke. You sobbed into her hair, into the scent of shampoo and peanut butter and crayons and safety.

“Oh my baby—my baby, my baby girl…” Mei was crying too, her tiny fingers touching your cheeks, your nose, your lips. “You came back,” she whispered, her voice thick. “I waited so long.” You nodded through the tears, cupping her face in your hands. “I’m here. I’m here now.” She sniffled hard. “You look skinnier.” You laughed through the sob. “You look taller.”

“I am. I’m four now.”

“I missed your birthday,” you whispered, guilt slamming into your ribs, she shook her head fast, curls bouncing. “You didn’t miss it,” she said. “I saved it. I didn’t blow out the candle. I told Grandma I’d wait until you came home so I can make a new wish.” You cried harder.

Hiromi stood nearby, silent, a balled fist over his mouth, his shoulders trembled as he turned away, just slightly—because watching you fall apart in Mei’s arms was the most beautiful pain he’d ever seen. Mei pulled back suddenly, her little hands gripping yours tightly, “You’re gonna stay now, right?” You nodded. “I’ll never leave you again.” She leaned forward and kissed your cheek—messy, wet, and perfect, then she whispered, “You can have my blankie tonight. I’ll sleep with Papa.” You laughed, the sound hoarse but real. “Deal.” You said as you were kneeling in the entryway of your home, your daughter in your arms, and your husband just steps away.

The living room smelled like home. There was a lavender candle flickering on the table. The soft hum of the kettle from earlier still lingered faintly in the air, joined now by the warm, earthy notes of steeping green tea. The television glowed with the soft colors of My Neighbor Totoro, painting shifting hues across the hardwood floor. You sat curled in your favorite corner of the couch, blanket wrapped loosely around your shoulders, legs pulled up beneath you. Mei was snuggled close against your side, wearing her fluffy pajamas with little kittens all over them, a half-eaten cracker resting on her lap as she stared wide-eyed at the screen.

The weight of her against you felt like something sacred. Her warmth. Her breath. Her tiny fingers reaching every few minutes to hold your hand. You hadn’t spoken much since dinner, but you hadn’t needed to and then—quiet footsteps approached. Your head turned automatically, heart lurching, Hiromi. He wasn’t heavy-footed. He moved carefully now, slower than he used to—like every step around you was a threadbare floorboard, delicate and easily splintered. In his hand was your favorite mug, pale pink with a little heart near the handle. Steam curled up from the tea inside, softening the air between you.

But your body still reacted.

You flinched.

Not hard. Not violently.

But enough.

Your shoulders jumped. Your breath caught. The blanket shifted slightly as your arms pulled tighter, Hiromi froze mid-step, your voice broke the silence before his could. “I’m sorry…” He looked down at the mug, then back at you. His face didn’t flinch. His eyes didn’t dim, he just nodded, voice low. “It’s okay. Don’t apologize, baby.” You swallowed. Mei stirred softly against you, looking up sleepily, then leaning back into your side.

Hiromi stayed where he was, still holding the mug.

Then, gently— “Would it be alright if I sat? Not next to you. Just… here.” He motioned to the floor, right in front of the couch, a little to the side. Not too close. Not looming. Just… near. Your hands tightened on the blanket, you didn’t answer right away and then— “…Okay.” He exhaled through his nose, like he’d been holding his breath for years. He sat down slowly, cross-legged on the hardwood, the mug carefully placed on a coaster within your reach. His back was straight, his presence open, head slightly bowed as if waiting—not asking for anything, just offering proximity.

You stared at the tea for a long time.

The steam curled toward your face, and with it came something strange.

Comfort.

Not safety—not yet.

But maybe the possibility of it.

You reached forward with a slow hand, fingers grazing the handle. Your hand trembled as you brought the cup close, the heat blooming against your palms. You didn’t drink. Just held it. The warmth seeped into your bones, Mei yawned and climbed up onto your lap without warning, settling with her head tucked under your chin. You stiffened for a moment—but she didn’t move again. Just breathed. Small, content.

Hiromi looked over his shoulder slightly, you met his eyes for only a second. He didn’t smile, but something softened around the edges of his face. He turned back to the TV. Totoro was bouncing across the screen. Mei gave a sleepy giggle and whispered, “That’s the part where the cat bus comes.” You managed a faint sound of agreement, Hiromi spoke quietly again. “I can stay here all night if you want.” The tea trembled in your hands, you didn’t look at him, but your voice came in a whisper— “You always say that.” His voice matched yours, hoarse with unspoken years. “And I always mean it.”

Mei had started humming under her breath, her tiny fingers were now tangled in Hiromi’s dark hair, combing through it in distracted patterns as Totoro twirled across the screen. Her warm breath tickled against your collarbone, her weight anchoring you in a way that felt both heavy and life-saving.

Hiromi didn’t move, he let her tug and twist, the occasional soft “ow” muffled with affection. “Papa’s hair is so long now,” Mei said with a sleepy grin. “You look like a samurai.” Hiromi glanced over his shoulder, one brow lifting. “A samurai?”

“Uh huh,” she said, yawning. “But a nice one.” He huffed a breath—half-laugh, half something unspoken—and turned his head slightly to let her keep playing.

You watched them.

The way his shoulders relaxed under her touch. The way she smiled like she didn’t know what fear was. The way your daughter trusted her father completely, like nothing in the world could ever break her. Your hand lifted before you realized what you were doing, it moved almost on its own, fingers outstretched, they hovered just behind Hiromi’s head, your breath catching in your throat—and then, slowly, you touched him.

Just your fingertips.

A gentle graze against the crown of his head, pushing lightly through his thick hair.

It was soft.

You remembered that.

You always used to touch his hair in the mornings. When he was still warm from sleep, stretched out beside you. You’d drag your fingers through it until he hummed into the pillow, and then turned over to kiss your neck and grumble about being late.

You did it now—slowly, softly.

Your fingers joined Mei’s.

Hiromi froze.

But not in fear. Not in tension.

In reverence.

Like he couldn’t breathe.

Mei kept humming, her eyes already fluttering half-shut.

“See, Mama likes your hair too,” she mumbled, rubbing her cheek against your chest, Hiromi didn’t speak. You kept stroking through his hair, fingertips light, memorizing the weight of it again, your hand trembled just a little, but he didn’t pull away. He bowed his head lower, eyes fluttering shut for a moment—just breathing.

It wasn’t much.

Not erasure. Not healing, not yet.

But it was a thread.

A single filament of connection re-woven.

He whispered, “You always do that when you're tired.” You said nothing, but your fingers kept moving and when Mei finally drifted into sleep in your lap, tangled in your warmth, you both stayed like that—your hand in his hair, his shoulder turned toward you, and the silence between you not so painful anymore.

Mei was asleep, Hiromi had lifted her from your lap like she was made of spun glass. One arm cradled under her knees, the other across her back, his face bent close to hers as she clung sleepily to his shirt. You sat on the couch wrapped in your blanket, watching as he carried her down the hall—soft footsteps, a door creaking open, his voice barely a whisper as he murmured goodnight and then— Silence.

Not a threatening one. Not the kind that howls and suffocates. But a silence that made space. You sat alone in your room, curled under the covers, staring at the moonlight drifting in through the curtain. The familiar shape of your nightstand. The faint hum of the heater.

Everything was yours.

But it didn’t feel like it.

Your body didn’t feel like it.

You stared down at your own hands, your knees drawn up under your nightgown. The fabric was soft, one of your favorites—white cotton. You had once loved how it made you feel pretty, even just padding around the house in slippers, now you barely recognized yourself in it, you pressed your hand flat to your stomach.

Breathing slowly.

In.

Out.

Take it back.

You stood.

The hallway creaked beneath your bare feet. A chill traced your spine, but it was good—it meant you were real, grounded, here. You reached the guest room door, the one Hiromi had left slightly open, just like he said he would.

You pushed it open quietly.

Hiromi was sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, still in the t-shirt and sweats he’d changed into after showering. His hair was damp. He looked up immediately, tense until he saw it was you. “Hey,” he said gently, voice low, almost gravelly from sleep. “Everything alright?” You didn’t answer.

You walked in, carefully.

One step. Then another.

He sat up straighter, concern darkening his brow.

“Do you need something? I can get—”

You climbed into his lap.

Hiromi froze.

Both hands lifted instinctively, not to touch—but to not touch. Hovering in the air near your thighs as you settled over him, straddling, knees on either side of his hips. Your nightgown fell around you in soft folds, moonlight dusting your face. He didn’t breathe. “I need…” you whispered.

His gaze flicked to your mouth, your throat, your eyes. “What do you need?” You leaned in, resting your forehead to his. “I need you to touch me.” He tensed.

But not in refusal.

In restraint.

“In what way?” His voice cracked, barely audible. “I don’t want to hurt you—I don’t want to take anything—”

“You’re not taking anything,” you said, trembling. “I’m asking.” His eyes closed. His breath left his lungs like a prayer. “Baby…” Your hands trembled as you reached for his wrists, guiding his palms to your waist, his fingers twitched—his touch was gentle as silk. “You tell me to stop, and I’ll stop. Say the word—any word—and it’s over. No questions.” You nodded, but your hands didn’t let go of his. You leaned in again, this time brushing your lips against his.

It wasn’t lust.

It was power.

It was yours.

A soft, slow kiss—one that started tentative, trembling, then deepened as he allowed you to lead. His hands stayed on your waist, barely holding you, letting you move how you needed. You shifted your hips, pressing yourself against him, breathing faster. “I need to feel like I can again,” you whispered, voice breaking. “You can,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You already are.” You kissed him again.

Longer.

Hungrier.

And his arms finally tightened around you—not to control, but to hold. To steady. His hands stayed respectful, firm where you guided them, reverent when they slipped beneath your nightgown.

You didn’t cry.

Not this time.

You felt alive.

He laid back slowly, letting you straddle him, his head sinking into the pillows as he whispered, “Whatever you need, I’m yours.” Your hips rocked softly in his lap, the thin nightgown barely a barrier between you. The air was thick with heat and trembling breath, but not once did Hiromi move without your lead. He was beneath you, head cradled in pillows, lips parted, eyes open—watching you. Only you.

You kissed him again—slow, claiming.

You shifted, guiding his hand between your thighs. He paused, the weight of his palm pressing gently through the fabric. “Are you sure?” he murmured, you nodded. “Just your hands.” His throat moved in a swallow as he whispered, “Okay.” His fingers slipped beneath the hem of your gown, up the inside of your thigh with a patience that felt more like worship than foreplay. He was reverent. Careful. Until his hand cupped over your womanhood, and you felt your breath hitch sharply, your own fingers gripped his wrist.

“Don’t take over.” Hiromi froze, then nodded. He let you guide the pressure, let you set the rhythm. His fingers moved slow, deliberate, only where you wanted—his palm warm and open, his lips parting at the soft sounds you couldn’t stop from slipping out. You rocked into his hand with growing urgency and he stayed still for you.

He didn’t chase the moment.

He let you.

Let you take your pleasure how you needed it—grinding against his palm, gasping softly into the space between your bodies, your gown rising around your hips, your legs trembling. “You’re perfect,” he breathed. “Don’t talk,” you whispered, forehead pressed to his. “Just... let me.” His chest rose in a sharp breath—but he obeyed. His jaw clenched, his knuckles taut with restraint as your hips moved harder, needier. The heat built so fast, so tight inside you that you moaned into his shoulder, burying your face in the crook of his neck as it overwhelmed you—hot and shattering and yours. You came with a trembling cry—silent and shaking—and Hiromi didn’t move.

Didn’t grip you tighter.

Didn’t buck or grind beneath you.

He held you through it, hand still beneath your gown, soaking in the moment with you like it was holy. When you collapsed over his chest, he exhaled finally. Long. Slow. Your cheek was against his skin. Sweat clung to your back. You stayed there for a while—both of you trembling in different ways, then you whispered, voice hoarse but steady, “I’m not broken.” Hiromi’s hand moved to cradle your waist. “No,” he said softly. “You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever known.”

The air was thick and quiet. You were still sat straddling Hiromi’s lap, your nightgown bunched around your hips, the ache still simmering low in your belly. His hands rested at your waist, barely holding. His chest was rising and falling with a tense rhythm—he was waiting, watching, trembling with restraint.

You weren’t done.

You didn’t feel finished. There was still a storm clawing inside you, wild and screaming. A pain deeper than bruises, deeper than flesh—something buried in your ribs that needed to break free.

You needed to take.

You reached down between your bodies, fingers dipping into the waistband of his sweats, Hiromi’s breath caught. “What—”

“Don’t touch me.” Your voice was hoarse. Commanding. Shaking, his throat bobbed with a thick swallow. “Okay.” You pulled him out—hot, hard, already leaking from the slow burn of restraint. He was big in your hand, and you wrapped your fingers around him like you owned him. Like the pain in your chest could only be answered by the stretch and heat of him inside you. He groaned low in his throat as you lifted yourself on your knees and guided him beneath you.

“I said don’t move,” you whispered, Hiromi’s hands stayed clenched at his sides, every muscle in his body straining as you positioned yourself. Your eyes locked with his—and you saw it—

Fear.

Not of you.

But for you.

Fear of pushing too far. Of letting you break instead of bloom.

But you weren’t breaking.

You were burning the rot away.

You sank down on him in one slow, brutal motion—your breath hitching, jaw tightening, eyes fluttering closed for just a second as the fullness hit you. A sharp stretch, a breath-stealing ache, and then— Relief. Hiromi let out a guttural, broken sound—but he didn’t move. His hands fisted the sheets, neck tense, face flushed. “Fuck,” he breathed, voice wrecked. “Baby…” You rocked slowly at first, your thighs trembling, your hands braced on his chest for balance. The sensation was raw—not tender, not slow, but necessary. It wasn't about romance. It wasn’t even about pleasure.

It was about power.

You were choosing.

You were taking.

Hiromi whispered your name like it was a prayer, but his hands never rose, never took control and when your pace quickened—hips snapping harder, sweat beading at your temple, your head thrown back—he groaned helplessly beneath you, every nerve on fire.

Still, he didn’t finish.

You slowed suddenly, breath ragged, grinding down hard with your thighs shaking and then you pulled off him, Hiromi gasped, nearly losing it right there. “Don’t,” you rasped, voice sharp but breaking. “Don’t finish inside me. I want to see it.” His eyes snapped open, you were on your knees beside him now, hand gripping him firmly, stroking him with slow, deliberate twists of your wrist. “I need to see you come undone,” you whispered. “I need to know I can still make that happen.” His head fell back. One hand lifted, burying in the pillow as his hips twitched. You watched him fall apart—chest rising in staccato gasps, neck taut, jaw clenched as he cursed under his breath. When he came, it spilled across your hand and wrist, hot and messy, and his moan cracked in his throat like something holy.

You stared at him.

Tears welled in your eyes—but they didn’t fall, you wiped your hand with the blanket, you didn’t speak. Hiromi was breathless, chest still rising and falling, his voice barely a whisper— “You’re not alone, baby. Not ever again.” You turned your back to him and slid under the blanket. “I know.” But your voice cracked and Hiromi laid there in the dark, breathing you in, not touching, not pressing—just present. Like a tether holding you to the life you were clawing your way back toward.

taglist ; @ohhheymessa

[suku-enthusiasts]

chapter sixteen || "no, mama, no" - s. geto

suguru geto x f!reader

❝She loved him through the storm—through the silence of hospital halls and the jagged weight of recovery. Suguru had once been her everything, her always. But healing reshaped him, softened his love into something quiet, unpromising. He no longer dreamed of vows. He no longer wished for children. And yet, there she stood—pregnant, unraveling, and alone in the spaces he left behind. Then came Hiromi. Steady. Patient. Unassuming. What began as co-parenting slowly bled into something gentler, something sacred. Through lullabies and court dates, aching laughter and late-night tenderness, a new kind of love was born—not loud or reckless, but steady as the earth. This is a story about losing the future you thought you’d have, and finding grace in the one you never imagined. About loving two men in different lifetimes of your heart—and the quiet, unshakable strength of choosing peace after pain.❞

word count ; 3.7k

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety. death. graphic scenes

series masterlist | next

The kitchen was alive with rhythm—oil crackling low in the skillet, a knife tapping a wooden board, the faint hum of summer air through the cracked window above the sink. The sky outside was bruised with golden blue, and the scent of garlic and fresh basil clung to your skin like perfume. Hiromi stood beside you, sleeves rolled up, hair tucked back from his face, slicing cherry tomatoes with the precision of a man who read contracts for a living but had mastered pasta salad out of pure love. He leaned closer every now and then, brushing his shoulder against yours, stealing a kiss to your temple, humming along to the playlist trickling from the Bluetooth speaker. Your ring—elegant and gold, the marquise diamond catching every drop of light—gleamed as you stirred the simmering pan of creamy mushroom risotto. You weren’t used to it yet. The weight. The meaning. The way Hiromi’s eyes softened every time he noticed you twisting it on your finger like a nervous habit.

“Think they’ll like this?” you asked, nodding toward the risotto. “They’ll love it,” Hiromi said confidently. “And if they don’t, I’ll pretend to choke dramatically and demand a pizza.” You snorted, bumping his hip with yours. Sosuke was nearby, strapped safely in his booster seat, happily banging two measuring spoons together like cymbals and yelling “No! Gimmie!” every time he saw something remotely edible. Kaito sat cross-legged on the floor, drawing a rainbow-colored Totoro with a red crayon. You were just finishing setting the table when your phone buzzed with a new message. You dried your hands and reached for it, smiling as you saw Suguru’s name light up the screen.

Suguru Geto: hey would it be alright if i brought someone with me tonight? her name’s Aya. we’ve been seeing each other for a bit now, the one I told you about. I’d like you to meet her, if that’s okay.

Your thumbs hovered for a moment, heart softening.

You: of course that’s okay! we’d love to meet her 🩵 hiromi made his famous tomato salad sosuke’s already in gremlin mode, so tell her not to wear white 😅

Suguru Geto: noted. she’ll love it thanks for being cool about this

You: always see you soon

You set your phone down and exhaled, smoothing your hand over your apron. Hiromi raised a brow from where he was tossing the salad, his gaze playful. “Was that Suguru?” You nodded, turning toward him with a lopsided smile. “He’s bringing someone tonight. Aya. His girlfriend.” Hiromi’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh. That’s… something.”

“Yeah.” You moved toward him, resting your hands lightly on his hips. “It’s good, though. He wants us to meet her.” Hiromi nodded, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “And you’re okay?” You smiled. “I think so. It just feels… new. But it’s time.” His hands slipped around your waist, fingers brushing your lower back. “I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“I don’t need you on your best,” you murmured with a teasing glint in your eye. “Just your kind, quiet, supportive, casually-hot behavior.” He laughed under his breath and stole another kiss, just as Sosuke let out a victorious screech from the booster seat, proudly flinging a plastic spoon onto the floor, Hiromi groaned. “We’re feeding a raccoon.” You laughed, already leaning down to pick it up. The doorbell hadn’t rung yet. The oven still had ten minutes left. But the air in the house felt like a breath being held. A night waiting to unfold.

The doorbell rang just as you were checking the rolls in the oven, the warm scent of rosemary and butter curling through the kitchen like a soft hand stroking your spine. “Sosuke, careful—!” you started to say, turning just in time to see him wind up and whack Kaito with a green plastic dinosaur. It hit with a hollow clunk right on Kaito’s arm, Kaito, ever the gentle boy, blinked slowly. “Ow.” Your mouth opened, but Hiromi was already moving—stepping around the dining table and crouching to Sosuke’s level in one smooth motion. His voice came out low, calm, the kind of gentle that made you fall for him in the first place. “Hey, buddy,” Hiromi said, opening his arms. “Come here.” Sosuke sniffed, brows furrowed in defiance, but he melted forward anyway, crawling into Hiromi’s embrace like it was the safest place in the world. You caught the faintest sound of Aya’s laugh from the porch, the screen door still unopened, as she watched the scene unfold through the glass.

Hiromi pulled back slightly, holding Sosuke by the shoulders, his thumbs brushing soothing circles along the fabric of his shirt. “We don’t hit, right? Even if we’re excited, or mad, or feeling too much at once. Especially not the people we love. Right?” Sosuke’s lip wobbled. “Yea.” Hiromi smiled. “So what do we do?” Sosuke turned, chubby legs thumping across the floor toward Kaito, and hugged him tightly, his cheek squished into Kaito’s side. “Sowwy.” Kaito patted his back with all the grace of a tenured older brother. “It’s okay, ‘Suke.” And then—ding-dong—the doorbell chimed again, soft and melodic.

You glanced at Hiromi, then quickly moved to open it.

Suguru stood there like a memory in a new coat of paint. He looked good—healthier, cleaner in the eyes, dressed in a navy button-down with the sleeves casually rolled, a gift bag hanging from one wrist. His hair was tied back, a few strands loose around his temples. And beside him stood Aya. She wore a long sage-green dress cinched at the waist, her dark hair swept over one shoulder. She smiled easily, but not too wide—aware, polite, trying not to overstep. Suguru met your eyes with a soft smile. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you said, heart thrumming as you stepped aside. “Come in.” Sosuke’s head whipped toward the door. “Papa!!” He sprinted with all the coordination a one-year-old could manage, nearly tumbling over his own feet as he flung himself into Suguru’s arms. Suguru caught him mid-run, scooping him up with practiced ease. “Whoa—look at this guy,” Suguru laughed, his voice deeper with joy. “Someone’s been eating his vegetables.” Sosuke giggled and clung to his father’s shirt, then turned slowly—his gaze locking on Aya.

He blinked.

Pointed.

“Don’t know.” Suguru paused, amused. “Okay, fair.” Aya knelt a little, keeping her hands visible and soft. “Hi, Sosuke. I’m Aya. It’s so nice to meet you.” Sosuke stared at her like a suspicious little king, then turned back to Suguru and mumbled a nonsense syllable before slumping against his chest like a drama prince. Aya looked up at you, half-laughing. “I’ve been rejected.” You smiled. “That just means he’ll love you in a week.” Hiromi stepped in then, reaching for the gift bag to give Suguru a hand. “Dinner’s ready—just waiting on you two. Come on in.” As everyone moved into the dining room, you caught Aya’s gaze linger on the warm glow of your ring. It shimmered as you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

Aya’s eyes widened just slightly—surprised but not unkind. She said nothing, just followed after Suguru, who hadn't noticed. Not yet and when you turned to follow them into the dining room, Hiromi’s hand brushed the small of your back. A reassurance. A question. A promise.

The clatter of plates and the hum of quiet conversation filtered from the dining room as you stepped into the kitchen, the warm light above casting a golden glow across the counters. You opened the fridge, grabbing a few bottles of sparkling water and juice boxes, then turned just as the soft swish of a dress caught your attention. Aya lingered in the doorway, her expression warm but tentative. “Hey,” she said gently, “need a hand?”

You smiled and handed her two of the glass bottles. “Thanks.” She took them carefully, setting them down on the counter, then leaned back just slightly, her fingers folding together at her waist. “I just wanted to say,” she began softly, her voice careful but not forced, “I know… this can’t be easy. Me being here. I’m not trying to take up more space than I should, and I don’t expect anything overnight. But… I’d really love to get to know you. I mean that.” You blinked, surprised at the honesty in her tone. She went on, quieter now, “Suguru talks about you all the time. Not in a weird way—just… with respect. He said he put you through hell. That he’s still working every day to forgive himself for it. And that you’re the strongest person he’s ever known.” Your heart stirred at that, your gaze softening.

Aya offered a shy smile, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I’m not here to compete or compare. I’m just here… hoping we can all figure out how to make something good out of all this. For Sosuke. For everyone. I’d like to be a support, if you’ll let me.” You were quiet for a moment. Her words had landed gently but deeply, and you let them sit in the quiet between you like the scent of bread still lingering from dinner, then you nodded slowly, lips curving. “I’d love that,” you said honestly, your voice low. “I think we all deserve that kind of peace.” Relief bloomed across her face—real and full. You reached over and handed her a juice box, the two of you laughing quietly like old friends in the making and just beyond the kitchen door, the low murmur of Hiromi reading to the boys, and Suguru’s laughter, reminded you that it was possible—for things to shift, for hearts to soften, for life to bloom again in the cracks of what once broke.

You and Aya returned to the dining room with hands full—sparkling waters, juice boxes, a couple of wine glasses clinking together, yours already halfway full. The laughter at the table was easy, warm, like sunlight slanting through a half-open window. Sosuke was on Suguru’s lap now, sticky fingers playing with a wooden spoon he’d claimed as a toy, occasionally smacking it against the table like a tiny drummer with no sense of rhythm.

Hiromi leaned back in his chair, arm draped lazily over the back of yours, and Kaito was telling Aya all about the new dinosaur book he’d read at school, complete with wide-eyed reenactments of raptor screeches.

You were glowing—just the tiniest flush across your cheeks from your second glass of wine. The same half-buzzed lightness that made your smile a little lazier, your eyes glintier, your laugh softer around the edges. Aya noticed it first, her lips twitching fondly as she sipped her water. But then you sat forward with that familiar spark of storytelling dancing across your face. “Oh—oh my god, wait,” you said, nearly choking on your own laughter. “I forgot to tell you what Sosuke did this week.” Everyone turned their attention to you, even Sosuke pausing to look up, as if curious what chaos he'd unknowingly caused this time.

“So,” you began, trying not to laugh before even starting, “I was in the shower, right? Just ten minutes. Ten minutes of peace. And I come out, towel in my hair, and this child—my son—has managed to climb onto the coffee table with Hiromi’s reading glasses on upside down, holding the remote like a microphone, screaming ‘No, Mama, no!’ at the TV.” Suguru barked out a laugh, full and surprised, his shoulders shaking as Sosuke gave a delighted “NO!” in perfect comedic timing. Aya covered her mouth, eyes wide, while Kaito was already giggling. Hiromi shook his head like a tired sitcom dad. “He was so confident. Like he was hosting a TED Talk.” You were already wheezing, tears threatening to gather at the corners of your eyes. “I had to bribe him down with a pouch of mango puree. And then he cried because I turned off Cocomelon.”

“You’re doomed,” Suguru said between laughs, wiping under his eye. You waved your glass slightly. “He’s dramatic. He gets that from you.” Suguru smirked, then his gaze caught on your hand as you gestured—the glint of gold and diamond catching in the light.

His smile paused.

You didn’t notice at first, too lost in the aftershock of your own story, but when you reached for your wine glass again, his voice came low, soft with something unreadable. “That’s new.” You blinked, then followed his eyes to your hand. “Oh.” Your smile turned sheepish. “Yeah. Um. A couple weeks ago.” Hiromi gently tightened his hand on your shoulder, grounding. “Congrats,” Suguru said after a beat, and though his tone was light, his eyes lingered a second longer. Then he looked to Hiromi and added, “You’ve got your hands full.” Hiromi gave a slow, knowing smile. “I know. And I wouldn’t trade a second of it.” Before the quiet could stretch too far, you raised your glass again and sighed happily, your flush deepening. “God,” you murmured, “this wine is so good.”

Suguru huffed a soft laugh, eyes flicking to your cheeks. “Guess you’ll always be a lightweight.” You fake-pouted, sticking out your bottom lip dramatically. “I am not.” Hiromi raised a brow and gave you a sideways look. “Oh no, honey. You definitely are.”

“Traitor,” you whispered, elbowing him. “You had half a glass at Mina’s and cried over a tea commercial,” Hiromi pointed out, earning laughter around the table. “That was emotional!” you defended, pointing your fork. “They bonded over oolong!”

“You sang along to the background music,” Hiromi teased, pressing a kiss to your temple, Suguru laughed again—softer this time, the kind of laugh that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. Even Aya smiled warmly at the easy banter, watching the way you and Hiromi orbited one another like planets that had always known their path. Kaito reached for another breadstick, Sosuke, determined not to be left out, smacked his spoon against the table and yelled, “NO!”

“See?” you said, gesturing to him proudly. “He agrees.” The room filled with more laughter, the kind that swelled and stayed in the corners long after the jokes had passed and in that moment, you felt it again—that strange, full sweetness of everything converging. The past. The future. The soft middle where healing happened.

The plates had long since been cleared, the laughter slowly settling into the soft hum of evening. Distantly, from the living room, you could hear the excited squeals of Kaito and Sosuke—Aya’s voice bright with playful affection as she wrangled them into a game involving toy blocks and two mismatched plushies. In the kitchen, the sink was warm with suds. You stood beside Suguru in the quiet clink of dishes being rinsed and dried, hands moving in practiced rhythm, neither of you speaking at first. The night had already been full, full of laughter, full of old memories braided into new joy. It was a miracle, in a way—that you could stand beside each other like this and not fall apart. Hiromi had stepped outside, the back door clicking softly behind him, trash bag in one hand and the easy surety of a man who belonged in every corner of your life.

“I’m really happy for you,” Suguru said softly, voice almost lost beneath the rush of water. You looked up. His gaze was on the dish in his hands, but his eyes were glassy, glinting under the kitchen lights. “I mean that. I’m glad you found him.” You didn’t say anything right away. “He’s good to you,” Suguru went on, drying the plate in slow, careful motions. “And he’s good to Sosuke. I... I see that. Every time I’m here.” You reached for another bowl, your voice gentler than breath. “He is. And he respects you, Suguru. He really does.”

“I know,” he nodded, swallowing hard. “It’s just... I guess I never said it before. But I always just wanted you to be happy. Even back then. Even when I didn’t know how to give you that.” You stilled beside him, the sponge slack in your hand. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, finally turning to look at you. “I’m so fucking sorry I took that from you—for a while. You didn’t deserve that.” Your heart broke open a little at the edges. Not in pain. In compassion. You reached for him, arms wrapping around his waist, your cheek resting against his chest. He let the towel fall and pulled you in close, shoulders trembling. “I forgive you,” you murmured into the fabric of his shirt. “I really do.” Suguru’s arms tightened slightly. You could feel his chest rise and fall—like he’d been holding a breath for over a year and had only just let it go.

“And Aya…” you pulled back slightly, tapping your palm playfully against his chest, eyes twinkling with the remains of your laughter. “She’s really sweet. I might have to steal her from you.” Suguru huffed out a tearful chuckle, wiping his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I wouldn’t even blame you.” From the door, Hiromi stood with one hand resting against the frame, Aya beside him, a small plush tucked under her arm. Neither of them interrupted. They just watched—the softness of healing, the swell of past and present brushing together like seafoam against the shore. Hiromi’s eyes met yours, and you gave him a look that said everything was okay. He nodded once and Suguru—Suguru finally exhaled all the way.

Sosuke was fighting sleep with the wild desperation only a toddler could muster—eyes heavy, blinking slow, his arms still lazily reaching for blocks he had no real intention of stacking. Suguru crouched in front of him, holding out his arms. “Alright, little man. Time to head out.” Sosuke let out a little whine, rubbing at one eye with the back of his chubby hand before crawling half-heartedly toward his father. But the moment Suguru gathered him up in his arms, the boy melted into his chest like honey warmed by sunlight. “Say bye, baby,” you whispered from the doorway.

Sosuke mumbled against Suguru’s shoulder, barely lifting his head. “Bye-bye Omi, mama,” he yawned, and Aya stepped closer, smiling as she adjusted the baby bag Suguru had packed earlier. “Bye, sweetheart,” you said gently, watching as Suguru adjusted the blanket over Sosuke’s back. The baby peeked out with heavy lids, looked at you, then over to Aya.

“Don’t know,” he muttered, sleep-soft and solemn, before hiding his face again in Suguru’s neck, everyone chuckled lightly. Aya’s smile didn’t falter. “I’ll win him over one day,” she said under her breath with a wink. You gave her a little grin and a nod. “Thank you for coming,” you said, walking them to the door. Suguru looked back, a hint of that old warmth in his eyes. “Dinner was great. Seriously. And… thank you.” You nodded. “Anytime.” The door closed with a quiet click. Silence settled. Hiromi reappeared a moment later, scooping up Kaito from the living room floor with the practiced ease of a man who had long since memorized the rhythm of sleepy limbs and stuffed toys. “Let me get these two down,” he murmured.

You nodded, already curling up on the couch, your tea warm in your hands, knees drawn to your chest beneath the oversized sweatshirt you’d stolen from Hiromi months ago. The house dimmed, only the soft glow of the kitchen light illuminating the cozy stillness. When he returned, his steps were quiet, his body warm from the boys’ bedroom. He sank onto the couch beside you, one hand reaching out to trace the curve of your knee where it peeked from your blanket, he kissed it softly. “Hey.” You looked at him, your eyes tired but content. “How are you feeling?” he asked, his voice low and calm. “Tonight went well, I think.” You sighed, leaning your head against the couch cushion. “It did. It really did.” He brushed a stray curl from your forehead, his thumb lingering at your temple. “Anything feel... heavy?” You smiled faintly, taking a slow sip of your tea. “Just a little full, that’s all. But in a good way. Like I’ve finally exhaled something I didn’t know I was holding in.” He nodded, pulling you in gently, your knees slipping between his thighs, your face tucking against his chest and there, in the quiet hum of a home filled with sleeping children and the faint echo of laughter still clinging to the walls, you breathed.

A week later, you found yourself at the grocery store with Sosuke in the cart, his chubby hands wrapped tightly around a plastic giraffe teether as he babbled at passing strangers. The fluorescent lights above hummed quietly, the rhythm of life slowed to domestic simplicity. Kaito was at a friend’s house, Hiromi had court that morning, and you—no longer working for the time being—were settling into a rhythm that felt warm and steady. Morning walks, home-cooked lunches, picking Kaito up from school. Hiromi often kissed your hand and reminded you, “You deserve to enjoy this. Let me provide.” You were turning into the cereal aisle when you heard a familiar voice call, “Papa!” Your eyes lifted just in time to see Suguru pushing a cart from the other end, his brows lifting as Sosuke wriggled and pointed, bouncing with glee. “Papa! Papa!” Suguru smiled, making his way toward you with a soft chuckle. “I was wondering why I had this sudden craving for juice boxes,” he teased as he reached your cart. “Now I know.” You laughed. “You still get that weird kind with the straw that always bends?”

“It builds character.” Sosuke was reaching toward him now, squirming to be lifted. Suguru complied, hoisting the baby to his chest with practiced ease. Sosuke patted his cheek like a kitten testing softness. “Ice cream?” he asked, completely out of nowhere. Suguru glanced at you, lips twitching. “What do you think? Bribe him into behaving for the rest of your shopping trip?” You smiled. “Only if you’re paying.” He grinned. “Done.”

You walked side by side through the last half of your shopping list—bread, wipes, fresh strawberries—while Sosuke babbled in Suguru’s arms, occasionally offering him the giraffe in exchange for a bite of invisible food. You didn’t talk about anything heavy, just groceries and summer heat and whether Sosuke’s curls were looking more like yours or Suguru’s these days. The small local ice cream shop next door was cool and quiet, the scent of vanilla and fresh waffle cones curling into the air like a memory. Suguru paid, just as promised, and you found a little table by the window. Sosuke sat in a booster seat, holding a cup of soft serve with both hands like it was a sacred relic. “Slow down,” you warned gently as he tried to inhale it. “You’ll freeze your brain.”

“Brain!” he echoed, grinning wide, Suguru wiped a dab from his chin and looked across at you. “So… how’ve you been? Really?” You stirred your spoon in your cup. “Good. Busy. Happy.”

“And Hiromi?” You glanced up. “We’re doing really well.” Suguru nodded, quiet for a moment. “He seems good. I like how he is with Sosuke.” That small, honest approval warmed something in your chest.

Then, the bell above the shop door chimed.

You turned—and your breath caught.

Your brother.

Dressed in khakis and a polo, a diaper bag slung over one shoulder, a tiny girl on his hip with matching dark eyes and two little puffs in her hair.

Beside him was his wife, graceful and startled at the sight of you. “Wow,” your brother said, his voice a mix of surprise and fondness. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” You stood, giving him a small, careful smile. “Hi.” He stepped closer, arms adjusting the toddler on his hip. “This is Mari,” he said softly. “She just turned two last month.” You smiled gently at her. “Hi Mari,” you cooed. “I’m your aunt.” Mari blinked shyly, then pressed her cheek to her father’s shoulder.

Your brother looked down at Sosuke, who had ice cream smeared from nose to chin. “And this must be Sosuke,” he said, kneeling slightly. “Man, you’re getting so big. Mom talks about you all the time.” Sosuke stared at him. “Gimmie,” he said, holding out his spoon toward Mari’s snack pouch, Suguru laughed. Your brother stood again and gave Suguru a nod. “Nice to see you. And congratulations,” he added, glancing toward your hand. “Mom told me about the engagement. To Hiromi Higuruma, right?” You nodded, heart thudding gently. “Yeah.”

“I’m happy for you,” he said, warm and sincere. “Really. He sounds like a good guy.” You glanced back at Suguru, who was smiling quietly. “He is,” you said. Ren lingered a little longer beside your table, his fingers brushing over the soft puff of Mari’s curls as she squirmed gently in his arms. His eyes shifted from you to Sosuke—now licking his spoon dramatically—and then back again, softer now, more vulnerable than you remembered seeing in years. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, voice low but firm. “I know I’ve got some making up to do. I was gone when I shouldn’t have been. But I want to fix it. I want Mari to grow up surrounded by family. Real family.”

You blinked slowly, caught off guard by the honesty in his tone. The old Ren had been careless with words, careless with people. But this version of him—father, husband, humbled by late nights and early mornings and the weight of a child on his chest—felt different. “I didn’t really know what it meant,” he continued, his voice hitching just slightly. “Family. Until her.” He looked down at his daughter with a reverence you hadn’t expected, and for a heartbeat, the years of silence and mistakes seemed to melt, softened by time and blood and the unexpected gift of a second chance.

“She changed everything,” he said, you nodded slowly, a soft smile blooming across your face. “That sounds nice,” you murmured, heart warming in your chest. “Really.”

Mari squirmed again, lifting her head just enough to reach her little arms toward you. Her tiny fingers curled around your shirt as she leaned into your chest, resting her head there as if you’d known her forever. Your arms instinctively wrapped around her small frame, and something inside you settled. “She likes you,” Ren said with a soft chuckle, clearing his throat. “I like her too,” you whispered into her curls. Beside him, Lila stepped forward. Her smile was bright but laced with something wistful. She reached out to gently tuck a strand of hair behind your ear in that old, familiar way. “You look great,” she said warmly. “I’ve missed you.” You met her gaze, and for a moment the years dissolved—the birthdays missed, the calls unanswered. She was the girl who used to braid your hair while talking about dreams and wedding dresses, now standing here with a toddler on her hip and kindness still in her eyes. “I’ve missed you too,” you replied.

Suguru, still quiet at the table, offered a gentle nod toward them both. “It’s good seeing you again,” he said to Ren. “Glad you’re doing well.” Ren smiled, lifting his daughter back into the crook of his arm. “I’m trying. Maybe we could… all do something sometime. Just the kids, all of us. No pressure.” You nodded again, your smile lingering this time. “We’d like that.” As they walked toward the door, Mari gave you a big wave with both hands, yelling “Bye-bye!” in a sing-song tone. You waved back, heart full. The bell chimed softly above the door as it closed behind them and for a quiet moment, everything stilled around the melting bowls of ice cream, the soft hum of sugar-laced peace. Suguru reached for a napkin, dabbing at Sosuke’s chin. “You alright?” he asked gently, glancing at you. You looked at your son—his lashes sticky with syrup and joy—and then back to Suguru, your voice a little thick but content. “Yeah,” you said. “Actually… I think I really am.”

taglist ; @stargirl-mayaa @shibataimu @anakinishotdoe @ohhheymessa @shibataimu @hellovanie @inixox0 @casssiesthings

[suku-enthusiasts]

Sukuna def gives "beating your ex bfs ass on sight" energy

My Current Boyfriend Keeps Beating My Exes Ass - Ryomen Sukuna

masterlist | word count ; 3.4k

cw ; sukuna violent per usual. fluff. smutty.

The first time you met Sukuna, you thought he was going to bite your head off. Not in the “oh, he’s a little intimidating” way — no, this man looked like he ate people for sport. Six-foot-five, built like someone carved him out of stone, pale buzzed-pink hair catching the light, and a face so sharp it could’ve sliced bread. He was leaning against Shoko’s car when you pulled up, arms crossed, tattoos flexing with the shift of his biceps.

Your fingers curled tighter around your purse strap.

Shoko had promised, He’s nice. He’s a friend. You’ll like him— and sure, Shoko was a doctor, but you were 90% sure she was lying through her teeth. He didn’t even greet you — just let his eyes roam over you slowly, like he was trying to figure out if you were worth his time. Then he finally said, “…So you’re the one she’s been talking about.” It wasn’t exactly friendly, but it wasn’t mean either. More like he was making a note of you — stashing away details for later, you swallowed, managing a quiet, “Hi.” Shoko, of course, had no sense of tension. She grinned and patted your shoulder. “She’s shy. Be nice.”

“Am bein’ nice,” Sukuna muttered, though his gaze softened just a touch when you met his eyes again. Like maybe he’d decided you were fine.

By the end of the night, you’d realized the giant, scary man was actually… weirdly sweet. He didn’t just open doors for you — he held them until you were fully inside. He’d lower his head to actually hear you when you spoke, even if you were whispering and when Shoko left you two at the bar to “grab more napkins” (which you later realized was code for let me go shove you into each other’s lives), he’d leaned closer and said, “You always this quiet, or you just don’t like me yet?” You’d laughed — a real laugh — and he’d grinned like he’d just won a prize.

You hadn’t told many people the full truth about Sato, the boyfriend prior to your teddy bear Suku. Most people just… knew you’d gotten out of a bad relationship, but they didn’t know the bones of it — the ugly parts, the way it had chewed you up and spat you out.

It had started small.

Little comments. Little controls. “Wear this instead.” “Don’t talk to him.” “Why do you have to go out without me?” You thought it was just possessiveness, maybe even misguided love.

By the end, you’d stopped recognizing yourself in the mirror — and not just because of the bruises. That last fight… Three ribs cracked, a popped vein in your eye, your whole face swollen and purple. You’d crawled away from that apartment with your phone clutched in your hand, blood on your shirt, and the quiet, desperate realization that you might not survive another day with him. Shoko had been the one to find you, the one to bring you to safety, the one to never ask questions you couldn’t answer yet. It took a year before you could breathe without feeling like someone was watching your every move. A year before you let yourself believe that maybe—not definitely, but maybe—you could meet someone who wouldn’t use love like a weapon (like your darling Suku Wuku).

Then the shouting started.

The shoves came next.

You and Sukuna had been seeing each other for a month when it happened, you were sitting on the floor of his apartment, your legs curled under you while he leaned against the couch, sipping a beer. The TV was on, but neither of you were really watching. He’d been patient with you from the start — shockingly so. Sukuna Itadori, the man who looked like he could snap a neck for fun, never rushed you, never pressed you to talk. But that night, he’d noticed the way you flinched when he’d moved too fast to grab the remote.

“It’s because… someone did,” you admitted quietly, Sukuna didn’t say anything, just set his beer down and turned toward you fully, one arm resting on his knee.

“You always do that,” he said, not accusing, just observing. “When someone moves too quick near you.” Your heart thudded. “Do what?”

“That little… pull-back thing,” he said, mimicking the slight jerk of your shoulders. “Like you’re getting ready for someone to swing at you.” You stared down at your hands, twisting your fingers together. For a second, you thought about brushing it off, making a joke. But something in his voice — low, curious, not demanding — made you exhale.

How Sato had started sweet and protective, how that sweetness had rotted into control and cruelty. How the shouting had become hitting, how the hitting had become a beating so bad you thought you might die. You didn’t leave out the broken ribs, the eye, the bruises. You told him how Shoko found you. How, for months afterward, you’d jump at shadows, sleep with the lights on, avoid mirrors. By the time you finished, your throat was tight and your hands were cold.

You told him.

Everything.

Sukuna hadn’t moved.

But there was something dangerous simmering behind his eyes now — something sharp and alive. His jaw worked once, twice, before he finally said, “If I ever see him, I’ll break every fuckin’ bone in his body.” You gave a shaky laugh, but it didn’t feel like a joke. “That’s… kind of the problem. I don’t trust people. Not the way I used to. It’s hard for me to believe they won’t—”

“Hurt you?” he finished for you, you nodded. He leaned forward then, his big palm cupping the side of your face with surprising gentleness. His thumb stroked over your cheekbone. “I’m not him,” he said, voice low but steady. “I’m never gonna be him. You hear me? You tell me ‘stop,’ I stop. You tell me ‘no,’ I fuckin’ stop. Only thing I’m ever gonna do with these hands is touch you the way you want, and make sure nobody else gets near enough to try anything else.” It wasn’t poetry. It wasn’t soft-spoken romance. But it was the first time in a long time you believed someone when they said you were safe and when, months later, Sato showed up for the first time and Sukuna kept that promise — fists, fury, and all — you knew there was no going back.

That was two years ago.

Now? He was still a big, rude, vulgar teddy bear for you. Still called you “baby” with his hands in your hair and “princess” when he was making fun of you. Still couldn’t keep his hands to himself — whether it was pulling you into his lap, rubbing your thigh under the table, or leaning over in public just to murmur something filthy in your ear, but there was one tiny CONTINUOUS problem…

If there was a hell reserved for running into an ex, you were living in it. Because no matter where you and Sukuna went — coffee shop, ramen place, bookstore, hell, even the damn phone store — Sato would be there and Sukuna? Oh, he’d beat his ass. Every. Single. Time.

Sato.

Your waste of oxygen ex-boyfriend.

The first time had been kind of justified — Sato had opened his mouth and called you “his girl” like you were still together. Sukuna had smiled (which was never a good sign) and then introduced Sato’s face to the nearest wall. But now? It had gotten to the point where you didn’t know if the universe was cursed or if Sato was actually paranoid for a reason — because after the sixth public beatdown, he started looking over his shoulder everywhere he went, like Sukuna was some kind of apex predator tracking prey…Which, to be fair, wasn’t totally wrong.

It was supposed to be a normal coffee run. You were standing in line, scrolling through your phone, Sukuna behind you with one massive palm resting low on your hip, thumb brushing lazy circles against the waistband of your leggings. You’d already picked your drink — he always ordered the same thing, black coffee, no sugar, no fun — when a familiar, unwelcome voice slithered in from somewhere behind you.

“Kuna. Please. Not here.” He stared you down, jaw flexing, eyes flicking past you to Sato like he was calculating how many punches it would take. Finally, he exhaled sharply through his nose, muttering, “You’re lucky she’s here, prick,” before letting you tug him back toward the counter.

“…Y/N?” You froze, Sukuna felt it instantly, the way your body went stiff under his hand. His head lifted, eyes narrowing before he even turned around and there he was. Sato. Looking like he’d just crawled out of a bad hangover — sunglasses indoors, cheap leather jacket, and that same smug face that had made you want to vomit even when you were dating. The exact moment Sato’s gaze flicked over you and landed on Sukuna’s hand gripping your hip, you knew this was about to go downhill fast, Sukuna’s voice was a low growl. “What the fuck is he doing here?”

“It’s a public coffee shop,” you whispered, trying to elbow him gently. “Please, just… don’t.” But Sukuna was already shifting his weight, shoulders rolling forward, that look settling over his face — the one you’d seen five other times right before he made Sato regret existing. You planted yourself in front of him like a human barricade.

Sato, looking like he’d just been spared by the grim reaper, slunk to the far corner of the café.

The second you got into your apartment, you barely had your shoes off before Sukuna kicked the door shut behind you. “You’re evil, you know that?” His voice was low, rasping, like he’d been holding something back for too long. “Making me walk away from that little shit.” You started to protest, but he was already crowding you against the wall, his breath hot against your cheek. “You owe me.” And then his mouth crashed onto yours — all teeth and heat and hunger. You barely had time to gasp before his hands were everywhere, shoving your coat off your shoulders, fingers sliding under your top to cup your waist, your ribs, your breasts.

“Sukuna—” you breathed, but he was already tugging your leggings down, his big hands impatient, rough in the way that made your knees go weak. “Let me eat you out,” he growled against your lips. “Right now. Since you wouldn’t let me beat his ass, I’m gonna have to put my mouth and hands to better use.” You whimpered when his hands hooked under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly and carrying you to the couch. He sat down with you straddling his lap, but only for a moment — just long enough to peel your underwear down and toss them somewhere behind him.

Then he was dragging you forward, settling you against the broad expanse of his chest before lowering you onto the cushions, his shoulders sliding between your knees.

“Spread for me, princess,” he muttered, his palms pressing your thighs wide. “Gonna make you forget that loser’s name. Gonna make you forget your own name.” The first stroke of his tongue had you arching, fingers tangling in the soft buzz of his hair. He groaned like he’d been starving, like this was the only thing that could cool the fire in him. Every flick, every slow drag over your clit was deliberate — teasing, then deep, then back to light again, like he wanted to keep you trembling just out of reach.

“You taste better than anything I’ve ever had,” he rasped against you, voice shaking with want. “You think I care about Sato when I’ve got this? Huh?” Your answer was a broken moan, your thighs trembling as he pinned you open and devoured you like he was making up for every fight you’d stopped him from having. His grip was firm, unyielding, but every sound you made softened his eyes, made him hum against you in that possessive, almost worshipful way. When you finally came, it was with your back arched and his name spilling from your lips in desperate, breathless pleas. He didn’t stop until you tugged at his ears and face, gasping for air, and even then he kissed you like he couldn’t stand to be apart for more than a second. “Next time I see him,” he murmured against your mouth, “I’m gettin’ my two-for-one — beat his ass and fuck you after.”

You were still catching your breath when Sukuna finally pulled back, his mouth glistening, eyes hooded and dangerous. He swiped the back of his hand over his mouth, smirking like a man who’d just finished a five-course meal. “You’re not done,” he rasped, voice thick with promise. His hands slid under your thighs again, and before you could even think of protesting, he stood up — lifting you like you weighed nothing.

“Kuna—” you started, but it dissolved into a squeak when he adjusted his grip so your bare heat was pressed against the hard line in his sweats. He walked toward the bedroom without breaking eye contact, his expression pure, smug satisfaction. “You know what my problem is, princess?” His tone was almost conversational, except for the way his fingers were digging into your ass. “You keep telling me not to beat that little fucker’s ass. So now I’ve got all this extra energy, and I’m gonna use it to ruin you instead.”

The door hit the wall when he kicked it open. He tossed you onto the bed, and you bounced once before he was over you, stripping his shirt in one smooth pull. The tattoos on his chest and arms shifted with every movement, shadows and lines framing muscle that looked carved, lethal.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he muttered, eyes dragging down your body. “All flushed, legs still shaky. Wanna keep you like this all night.”

You shivered when his hands caught the hem of your shirt and peeled it over your head, his palms instantly sliding up your sides. He cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they hardened, his smirk widening when you arched into his touch.

“Sensitive today, huh?” he teased, leaning down to kiss the soft skin just above your collarbone, then lower, then lower still until his tongue was circling a peak. You moaned, fingers threading into the pale pink buzz of his hair. He pulled back only long enough to strip the rest of his clothes, his cock already thick and heavy, flushed at the tip. You stared, lip caught between your teeth, and his smirk turned sharp.

“See somethin’ you like?”

You swallowed hard, but before you could answer, he was crawling over you again, his weight sinking the mattress. One big hand grabbed your jaw, tilting your head back so he could kiss you — deep, wet, claiming — while the other slid between your thighs. He didn’t rush. He teased you, dragging his fingers through your slick folds, groaning low in his chest. “This is mine,” he growled, two fingers slipping inside you with an easy stretch. “All of you is mine. And I’m gonna fuck you so good you forget anyone else ever touched you.” You gasped when he curled his fingers just right, brushing that spot that made your vision blur. Your nails dug into his shoulders, and he grinned like he wanted you to mark him up.

When he finally lined himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, he held still for a moment, his eyes locked on yours. “Gonna take it all for me, princess?” he asked, voice low and almost tender under the filth, you nodded, breathless. “Yes.” That was all he needed. He pushed in slow at first — just enough to let you feel every inch stretching you open — but once he was seated deep, his patience snapped. His hips slammed into yours, the bed frame groaning under the force.

Every thrust was hard, deliberate, his hands gripping your waist to drag you into him. He kissed you between gritted teeth, swallowing your moans, breaking only to mutter against your lips:

Your legs wrapped around his hips, holding him close, and he groaned when you clenched around him. “Yeah, just like that. Keep doin’ that and I’ll fill you so deep you’ll feel me for days.” His pace was relentless, the sound of skin on skin mixing with your breathless cries. You could feel yourself unraveling, every muscle tightening as he fucked you through the aftershocks of the first orgasm and into another. When you came again, it was messy — your nails raking his back, your head tipping back against the pillows. He followed a moment later, grinding deep with a low, guttural groan as heat spilled inside you.

“Fuck, you feel perfect.”

“Made for me.”

“Not lettin’ you walk tomorrow.”

He stayed there for a beat, chest heaving, his big hands still framing your hips like he couldn’t stand the thought of letting go. Then, with a smug little smirk, he leaned down to kiss you again — slow this time, almost sweet. “Next time,” he murmured against your lips, “I’m not holdin’ back. Sato gets the beating, and you still get this.”

After, you lay there boneless, your body humming in that floaty, wrecked way only Sukuna could give you. He kissed your forehead, muttering something about “getting your ass in the bath before your legs give out,” and padded into the bathroom.

The sound of running water filled the apartment, and you smiled lazily when you heard him rummaging in the cupboard for your favorite bath salts. He reappeared shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, and leaned over to press a slow kiss to your mouth.

The takeout place was only ten minutes away. Sukuna had his hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, already thinking about how smug you were gonna look eating dumplings in the bath. He stepped inside, scanned the counter— And froze.

“Bath’s ready,” he murmured, thumb brushing your jaw. “Gonna go grab us some takeout while you soak. You want the usual?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, still too blissed out to form full sentences.

“Good girl,” he said with that crooked smirk, kissing you one more time before heading for the door.

Sato.

Standing there like a deer in headlights, clutching a paper bag and looking like the universe had personally wronged him. “Hey, man,” Sato stammered, holding up his free hand. “I—I don’t want any problems.” Sukuna’s grin was slow, predatory. He rolled his neck until it popped, then cracked his knuckles one by one. “Funny thing, Sato…” he drawled, taking a step forward. “I do.” There wasn’t much more conversation after that. One second Sato was mumbling something about “just getting dinner,” and the next he was eating tile. The cashier yelped and ducked behind the counter as Sukuna’s fist connected with Sato’s jaw, then his ribs, then—just for good measure—his jaw again.

By the time Sukuna was done, Sato was groaning on the floor, swearing under his breath like it might summon a doctor. Sukuna adjusted his hoodie like nothing happened, stepped over him, and strolled to the counter. “Order for Itadori,” he said casually, sliding a card across the counter. The cashier, still wide-eyed, wordlessly handed him the bag. Sukuna took it, gave Sato one last satisfied look, and headed for the door. For the first time all night, he felt completely, utterly fulfilled.

When he got back, you were still in the bath, hair damp against your shoulders, eyes heavy with relaxation. He set the bag on the counter, wandered in, and leaned against the doorway. “You look happy,” you said, arching a brow. “Got the food,” he replied, smirk tugging at his lips. “And… dessert.” You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Sukuna… what did you do?”

“Nothing,” he said innocently, crossing the room to kiss you. “Just worked up an appetite.” You groaned, half in exasperation, half because you knew exactly what that meant. “Next time, I’m sending Shoko to get the takeout.”

“Fine,” he muttered against your skin. “As long as I still get to eat something when I get back.”

authors note ; I haven't written just a one shot in forevaaa, here ya go

[suku-enthusiasts]

chapter fifteen || place in life - s. geto

suguru geto x f!reader

❝She loved him through the storm—through the silence of hospital halls and the jagged weight of recovery. Suguru had once been her everything, her always. But healing reshaped him, softened his love into something quiet, unpromising. He no longer dreamed of vows. He no longer wished for children. And yet, there she stood—pregnant, unraveling, and alone in the spaces he left behind. Then came Hiromi. Steady. Patient. Unassuming. What began as co-parenting slowly bled into something gentler, something sacred. Through lullabies and court dates, aching laughter and late-night tenderness, a new kind of love was born—not loud or reckless, but steady as the earth. This is a story about losing the future you thought you’d have, and finding grace in the one you never imagined. About loving two men in different lifetimes of your heart—and the quiet, unshakable strength of choosing peace after pain.❞

word count ; 4.4k

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety. death. graphic scenes

series masterlist | next

The day of Sosuke’s first birthday arrived wrapped in sunshine and warm breeze, the kind of summer day that seemed like a blessing all on its own. Your parents' backyard had been transformed into a gentle celebration, all soft colors and laughter, like a watercolor painting come to life. Streamers fluttered beneath the leafy canopy of trees, paper lanterns swayed above the tables, and there in the middle of it all was your son—your beautiful, silly, loud little boy—stomping through grass like he owned the earth. Sosuke was walking now. His legs wobbled like jelly, but he moved with the confidence of a king, babbling loudly and pointing to things he wanted with chubby fingers and a sharp, demanding "Gimmie!" His curls bounced as he toddled around, hands outstretched for toys, cake, or attention—whichever came first. He said "No" just as much, with a furrowed brow and a comical little scowl that made everyone laugh.

He called you "Mama" with a sleepy murmur when he crawled into your lap, seeking comfort and warmth. He called Suguru "Papa," always with excitement, reaching up with eager hands. Kaito had become "ToTo," his favorite playmate and shadow, and Hiromi—the man who kissed you goodnight, held you close, and made your chest ache with love—was "Omi." The backyard buzzed with gentle chaos: your mother darting between dishes and drinks, Hiromi’s mom laughing beside her as they prepared plates. Your dad manned the grill with determined focus, smoke curling around him. The scent of roasted vegetables and marinated chicken filled the air. Yuuji, Mina’s boyfriend, had arrived with a burst of energy, immediately clapping Suguru on the back and launching into conversation. Mina herself floated between people with a drink in hand, her smile wide as she took in everything. Hiromi stood close to you beneath the shade of the awning, one arm lazily slung around your waist. Kaito and Sosuke ran between your legs, squealing as bubbles floated above their heads, giggles ringing through the yard. You leaned into Hiromi’s side and sighed, warm and content.

"Your sister likes me," he murmured, his voice low and amused against your temple. You smiled, turning slightly. "She thinks it’s cool you’re a lawyer. I think she’s more in love with your job than you."

"Rude," he said, grinning. Your mom brought out the cake not long after—a tiny round thing decorated with fondant animals, one single candle perched on top. Sosuke was placed in the center of the table as everyone sang, eyes wide, arms waving, frosting already smeared on his cheeks before the song even ended. He squealed with joy when Kaito cheered beside him, yelling "Blow it out!" And you caught Suguru watching.

Not the cake. Not the table.

But you.

His eyes were soft. Not sad, but... quiet. Full. Like he was memorizing the shape of you beneath the sunlight, the sound of your laugh, the way you leaned forward to brush frosting from Sosuke’s nose. He smiled when you glanced at him, you smiled back.

Later, while the kids played and the parents gathered near the grill, Suguru stepped outside with your dad. The smoke curled up from the coals, and the steady sizzle of meat filled the quiet between them. "Still know how to flip one of these?" your father asked, handing him the tongs. Suguru took them, gave a wry smirk. "I’ve had practice." They stood in comfortable silence for a moment. Your dad passed him a beer. The breeze picked up and stirred the scent of summer.

Then your father cleared his throat. "Hiromi came by the other week." Suguru looked up. "Oh?"

"Took me to coffee. Said he wanted to ask for her hand." The world stilled, just slightly. Suguru said nothing at first. He turned the chicken slowly, his movements practiced, steady. Your father didn’t push. He just sipped his drink and stared out at the kids tumbling across the lawn. "I told him yes," he said after a while. "Told him she deserves someone who treats her like she’s made of gold. Who never makes her feel like she has to beg to be loved." Suguru swallowed hard. The metal tongs were hot in his hand. "I never meant to hurt her."

"I know," your dad said gently. "But you did." Suguru didn’t try to argue. What could he say? "You’re still his father," your dad added, nodding toward Sosuke, who had now planted himself on your lap, trying to feed you soggy bits of cake. "You always will be. You’re a good papa. I know that." Suguru’s voice was rough. "I don’t want to be replaced." Your father looked at him, eyes kind. "You won’t be. Not in Sosuke’s heart. But she’s not yours to hold anymore, Suguru. That part’s over." Silence stretched long between them. "Still," your dad said finally, placing a steady hand on his shoulder, "I love you. That’s never changed. Just be the best father you can be. That’s all any of us can ask." Suguru’s throat was tight, but he nodded. "I will." Your dad smiled. "Good. Now quit burning my chicken." Suguru barked out a laugh—quiet, breathy and somehow, just like that, the moment passed.

By sunset, the party had mellowed. Sosuke was sticky and exhausted, sprawled on a blanket with Kaito, half-asleep and sugar-drunk. Mina leaned against Yuuji as he rubbed her shoulder. Your mother dozed lightly in a chair, and your father finally sat down with a full plate.cHiromi wrapped an arm around your waist again, drawing you in and as the fireflies began to flicker in the darkening yard, you looked around at all of it—the noise, the peace, the love, the ache—and felt the weight of a year, full and raw in your chest. You bent to kiss Sosuke’s temple, and he stirred, mumbling, "Mama... Omi... Papa... ToTo..." He was everything and somehow, in this life that had shifted and broken and reformed itself again, so were you.

You stood by the open sliding door, Sosuke perched on your hip, heavy and warm from a full belly and a full day. His curls were tousled, cheeks flushed, his little body soft with sleepiness—but his eyes were still bright, flickering between faces he knew and loved. Suguru approached slowly, the keys to his car in hand. “Hey,” he said, voice low, you turned toward him. “Yeah?” He scratched at his temple, hesitant for a breath. “Would it be alright… if I took him home tonight? Just for the evening.” There was no hesitation in your answer. Just a soft nod and a warmer smile. “Of course. He’d love that.” Suguru exhaled, almost like he hadn’t expected you to say yes so easily. His hand reached for Sosuke, and the boy leaned instinctively into his father’s chest, pudgy fingers clutching his shirt.

“Say bye-bye to Mama,” you whispered, Sosuke turned, kissed your cheek with an open-mouthed smush, and murmured, “Bye-bye, Mama…” Your throat tightened just a little as you kissed his head, breathing in the sweet scent of baby shampoo and vanilla frosting. “Be good for Papa, okay?”

“‘Kay.” Then, with a sleepy blink, Sosuke looked across the yard where Hiromi and Kaito waited near the cars. “Bye-bye, Omi,” he called, Hiromi stepped forward with a slow smile, his voice warm and light as he crouched to Sosuke’s eye level. “Bye, little man,” he said, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You be good.” Sosuke giggled, cheeks dimpling, and leaned fully into Suguru’s chest.

For a heartbeat, the world was still.

No one spoke.

Just the wind in the trees and the soft hush of summer settling into night.

Suguru nodded to you, a faint, quiet thanks in his eyes. You offered a small wave and turned toward the car. Kaito scrambled into the backseat, still bubbling with leftover energy from the party. You settled in the passenger seat as Hiromi started the car, his hand resting lightly on your thigh as the headlights cut across the grass. Behind you, Suguru buckled Sosuke into his car seat, hands practiced and gentle, before climbing into the driver’s side. His car rumbled to life, and as he pulled out onto the quiet road, Sosuke waved once more from the backseat, a sleepy little hand pressed to the glass. Hiromi reached over and laced your fingers together as he pulled out behind them.

Neither of you spoke for a moment.

The air in the car was calm—soft music on the radio, Kaito humming absentmindedly in the back, your body still faintly warm from the summer sun, from grilled food and cake and the strange full-hearted ache of watching time pass. Hiromi glanced at you as the car coasted down the road.

“You okay?” You nodded, eyes still on the fading taillights of Suguru’s car. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “It’s just… it hits different, doesn’t it? Watching him go off like that.” Hiromi’s thumb brushed over the back of your hand. “He’s lucky to have two homes that love him,” he said. “Even if it stings sometimes.” You turned your head toward him, lips curving. “You’re good at this.”

“What, driving?” You huffed a soft laugh. “No. Loving us.” Hiromi gave your hand a gentle squeeze. “You make it easy.” Kaito piped up from the back, “Can we have leftover cake when we get home?” Hiromi glanced at you with a smile. “Definitely,” you both said in unison. As the three of you headed home—your home—you could almost feel the rhythm of it beating beneath your skin. Not perfect. Not painless. But real. Honest.

Alive.

And in another part of town, Sosuke had already fallen asleep in Suguru’s arms, his head tucked under his father’s chin, the apartment dim and cozy, the entire living room bathed in warm yellow light and lined with toys, books, and blankets—a nursery in every corner.

Two cars.

Two homes.

One boy.

One story still unfolding.

The next day was slow and bright, a golden kind of quiet settling over everything. You had errands to run—nothing major, just a few stops around town, but enough to keep you out until the afternoon. When Hiromi asked if you wanted company, you shook your head with a smile, brushing your fingers down his chest as he leaned against the doorway. “I’ll be quick,” you promised. “I’m gonna swing by and pick up Sosuke from Suguru’s, too.” Hiromi nodded, but not before reaching for your hand and kissing your knuckles. “Alright. Be safe, mama.” So you sent Suguru a quick text—

on my way, going to pick up the little monster

and he responded almost immediately: 

we just finished cooking. come hungry.

You hadn’t eaten yet. The morning had been a rush of laundry and forgotten lists and the quiet hum of summer. So when you parked outside Suguru’s apartment, you were more grateful than you expected to be. The scent of something rich and familiar met you the moment he opened the door. Sosuke was on the floor, surrounded by toys and blankets, babbling to himself in a stream of toddler nonsense, his favorite stuffed fox tucked under one arm. He looked up the moment he saw you and lit up like a sunrise. “Mama!” You swept him into your arms with a kiss to his cheek, Suguru closed the door behind you. “You eat yet?” You shook your head, still bouncing Sosuke on your hip. “Sit down,” he said, already turning back toward the kitchen. “I made plenty.” The table was set simply—two plates already filled, a third just waiting. Stir-fried noodles, grilled vegetables, and soft steamed buns that made your stomach twist with hunger. You slid into the chair across from Suguru as he handed you a glass of water, Sosuke nestled now into his high chair between you.

“Hi, hi, hi,” your son chanted, cheeks round as he reached for his food. “Hi,” you murmured back, brushing your hand through his curls. The three of you ate together, the air warm and easy. Sosuke babbled between bites, clapping his hands at nothing in particular, chewing with his mouth open and chattering between mouthfuls. You laughed when he dropped a piece of carrot down his shirt and declared, “Oh no!” Suguru chuckled too, shaking his head. “This kid’s a riot.”

“He takes after his papa,” you said lightly, sipping your water, Suguru smiled, quiet again. Then, after a pause, he glanced up at you. “So,” he said, voice casual but not careless, “how are things with Hiromi?” You blinked, a little surprised. Suguru held your gaze—not accusing, not bitter. Just open. Curious. The kind of question that carried years inside it. You looked down at your plate, then back at him.

“They’re… good,” you said softly. “He’s gentle with me. He listens. Loves Sosuke like his own.” Suguru nodded, eyes falling briefly to the edge of the table. His voice was low. “Are you happy?” The question hung there—simple, but weighty, you reached for your glass again, fingers lingering.

“I am,” you said honestly. “It’s different. It’s quiet. But it’s steady. He makes me feel safe. And… loved. Every day.” Suguru looked up again then, his expression unreadable. His lips pressed together in a faint smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes, but it was there all the same. “I’m glad,” he said. “You deserve that.” You nodded, silence settling in again as Sosuke shoved a fistful of noodles in his mouth and declared, “Nummy!” You both laughed, and just like that, the heaviness lifted for a breath. Still there—but softened by the sound of your son’s joy.

You stayed a little longer than you planned. The kind of visit that stretches because the air is easy and the silence doesn’t press. Suguru’s apartment still felt like one giant nursery—soft rugs and shelves of books beside baskets of toys, baby wipes and blankets folded on every surface. Sosuke wandered in his wobbly steps from corner to corner, giggling at the sound of his own voice, pressing buttons on a singing elephant, then toddling back to your lap for a handful of rice. Suguru poured you a cup of tea just the way you loved it—sweetened with honey, a splash of oat milk, a slice of lemon floating like a pale sun. When he slid it in front of you, you blinked at the familiar smell and warmth, a quiet sort of ache spreading through your chest.

“Still your favorite?” he asked, settling in across from you, Sosuke now seated between you with a bib covered in sesame sauce and mischief.

You nodded, hands cupping the mug. “Always.” He watched you sip in silence. Then his voice came gently, like something he’d been holding for a while. “You asked me yesterday how I was… and I gave you the short answer.” You looked up, eyes soft. “You can give me the long one.” He ran his thumb along the rim of his glass. His voice dropped lower, more intimate. Honest. “I’m doing better,” he said. “Not just ‘okay.’ Better. I’m taking my meds regularly. They adjusted the dosage about a month ago, and it’s helping with the fog. I’m actually sleeping at night. Dreaming again.” Your heart ached in a different way now, a quiet swell of pride and sorrow all at once.

“I go to therapy every week. Same woman. She doesn’t let me bullshit her.” You smiled faintly. “Sounds like someone I’d like.” He chuckled. “She’s good. I talk about everything. Not just the surface stuff. The deep stuff. The scary shit I’ve ignored for years.” He glanced at Sosuke, who was now trying to spoon food into your mouth with a wet, triumphant squeal. Suguru's voice softened even further. “I think… watching him be born, being handed this tiny, real, breathing human who didn’t know me but still needed me—it shook me. In a good way. It made me want to live again. Not just exist.” You reached across the table and brushed your fingers against his wrist. He let you.

“I’m proud of you, Suguru,” you said, and you meant it. There was a beat, and then his gaze shifted. Something new flickered behind his eyes.

“I’ve also… been talking to someone.” You blinked, fingers still resting lightly on his skin. “She’s a professor at the university. Psychology. Been there a while, but we never really crossed paths until this semester. Her name’s Aya.” There was no jealousy in you. Just a quiet curiosity. “She’s kind,” he continued. “Soft-spoken. She doesn’t try to fix me. Just listens. Lets me be who I am without flinching.” You smiled. “Sounds like she’s what you need.” He gave a sheepish shrug. “I haven’t introduced her to Sosuke. Not yet. I… I wanted to talk to you first. Didn’t feel right just… doing it.” You looked at him—really looked. The man who once disappeared into shadow now reaching for light with trembling hands. “I appreciate that,” you said. “That you thought of me.” He nodded slowly.

“I don’t know what it’ll become. We’re just… taking it slow. But she calms something in me.” He paused, breathing deeply. “I don’t think I’ll ever have what I had with you. That kind of love… it was wildfire. Beautiful, but it burned everything it touched.” Your eyes stung. You didn’t look away.

“But I think now,” he said, his voice quiet and sure, “the kind of love I need is one that lets me grow. One that’s calm. Gentle. A love that feels like breathing. Not one tied up in guilt and history and what-ifs.” You were silent for a long moment, sipping your tea. Sosuke babbled between you, content in his own noisy little world. Finally, you whispered, “That’s the kind of love we both needed.” He nodded, and in the quiet that followed, something inside both of you settled. It wasn’t closure—not really, but it was something like peace.

You carried Sosuke up the front steps, his weight warm and drowsy against your chest after the ride home. The moment you opened the door, his eyes snapped open with toddler excitement, and he immediately squirmed to be let down. “Play!” he chirped, feet slapping the floor as he ran unsteadily into the living room. Kaito looked up from the blocks scattered across the rug. His eyes lit up, and he beamed. “Sosu!” Sosuke barreled toward him, throwing himself into Kaito’s arms, both of them collapsing into giggles and chaos, a blur of mismatched curls and sticky fingers and bright, unburdened laughter. You smiled, lingering in the doorway a second longer than usual, your heart full and aching all at once. Hiromi appeared from the hallway, one eyebrow raised, hand resting against the wall. His tie was already loosened from a soon call, the sleeves of his button-down rolled to his elbows.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he asked, voice low and easy, but with that slight thread of intuition woven into it—the one he always seemed to carry when it came to you. You tried to nod, but something must have slipped in your face, because his brows furrowed just enough for concern to bloom. He walked toward you slowly, slipping an arm around your waist and pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Come on,” he murmured. “Let them play for a bit.” You let him guide you down the hall, his hand warm at the small of your back. The bedroom was dim with late afternoon light, golden slats filtering through the curtains. He sat you down on the edge of the bed and closed the door gently—though not all the way, just cracked, just enough to hear if the boys needed anything, Hiromi crouched in front of you, resting his hands on your thighs. “Tell me,” he said gently. You took a long breath, then another. Your voice trembled at the edges.

“I saw Suguru today. Had lunch with him and Sosuke while I picked him up.” Hiromi didn’t interrupt. He nodded slowly. “He’s doing better,” you continued. “Sleeping. Eating. Going to therapy. Taking his meds. And there’s someone new. A professor. She’s kind. Grounding. He said she calms him. That it’s different from what he had with me.” Hiromi’s eyes searched your face. “How do you feel about that?” You swallowed. “I’m happy for him,” you said, and it was true. “I am. Really.” Your fingers twisted in your lap. “But…” The word cracked, brittle. “I’d be lying if I said it didn’t hurt a little.” His touch was steady, his thumb drawing a slow line along the side of your leg. “He missed so much,” you whispered. “Not just holidays or appointments—he missed everything. He missed the kicks, the cravings, the panic attacks. He missed the hospital room. The blood. The fear. He missed holding Sosuke for the first time.” Your throat closed for a moment. “I held all of that alone. And I did it because I had to. Because I love my son. But sometimes I still wake up with that ache in my chest, remembering how empty the bed felt. How I whispered his name during labor and he wasn’t there.” Hiromi shifted, sliding onto the bed beside you, gathering you close, your head tucked into the curve of his neck.

“I know mental health is complicated,” you murmured into his collarbone. “I know it doesn’t come with deadlines or magic clocks. I know he wasn’t choosing to disappear. But… I still wish he hadn’t.” Hiromi held you tighter, his voice warm against your hair. “It’s okay to feel both. To be happy for his growth and still mourn the time you didn’t have.” You nodded slowly, letting the tears slip free, quiet and hot down your cheeks. “He’s a good father now,” you said. “And Sosuke adores him. But I think part of me will always ache a little for what could’ve been.” Hiromi kissed your forehead, slow and sure. “That doesn’t make you unkind. It makes you human.” You breathed him in—soap, warmth, the faintest trace of coffee still lingering on his shirt. “I’m so tired of pretending I’m always okay.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” he whispered. “Not ever.” You stayed like that for a while, the light dimming, the sound of little feet pattering in the hallway, the faint squeal of “ToTo!” echoing from the living room. Eventually, you pulled back, wiping your cheeks, eyes a little clearer. “Thank you,” you whispered, Hiromi smiled, cupping your cheek. “Anytime,” he said. “Now… want me to go distract the boys so you can take a bath?” You smiled faintly. “Only if you join me later.” His grin curled, mischievous and warm. “That can be arranged.”

The living room glowed gold with the hush of evening, the soft hum of summer winds sneaking through the cracked window. The air smelled faintly of popcorn and sweet fruit—peach slices you’d cut for Kaito, banana chunks that Sosuke mashed more than he ate. The couch had become a mountain of blankets and pillows, a nest of comfort that cradled the four of you like a shared breath. Totoro flickered across the screen in gentle pastel tones, Studio Ghibli magic weaving the air into something hushed and sacred. Kaito sat cross-legged beside Sosuke, explaining the movie in whispers as if the toddler could truly understand. Sosuke, in his little grey Totoro onesie, squealed and babbled at the forest spirits, his round cheeks glowing with joy. Every time Totoro growled his deep, grumbly sound, Sosuke lit up, clapping his hands, shouting, “Big! Big!”

You and Hiromi were tangled together on the far end of the couch, your head resting on his shoulder, his arm tucked around your back, fingers drawing lazy patterns on your hip beneath the blanket. “I love this part,” you murmured, voice barely above the hush of the film. Hiromi smiled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Me too. Kaito always used to think the cat bus was real. Tried to get on a city bus once and asked if it could fly.”

You laughed softly, turning your face into his shoulder. “I probably would’ve done the same as a kid.” Sosuke gave a dramatic gasp from across the couch. “ToTo! Bus!” Kaito giggled beside him. “It’s not ToTo, it’s Totoro, silly.”

“Tototo!” Sosuke yelled, triumphant. Hiromi’s chest shook with laughter. You watched your boys—his and yours and now ours—curled together like brothers in a world all their own and then, quietly, without shifting much at all, Hiromi reached into the blanket between you and pulled something from his pocket. He didn’t make a show of it, didn’t clear his throat or sit up straighter. He just slipped it into your hand, your palm cupping something small and smooth and warm from his touch.

You looked down and saw it.

A marquise-cut diamond, one carat, elegant and delicate and gold, nestled in the cradle of your palm like a promise made flesh. You stared at it. Then up at him. His eyes were soft, unreadable in the way they always were when emotion got the better of him. But his smile trembled a little at the edges, and his hand reached to gently wrap around yours. “I didn’t want to do it in front of a crowd,” he said, voice low and rough with feeling. “Didn’t want a big dinner or lights or some over-the-top moment.” You blinked, heart in your throat. “I wanted this,” he whispered. “You. Me. Them. Our strange little family. Our couch, our movie, our crumbs on the floor and half-eaten fruit. I wanted this night, when your hair smells like peach shampoo and you’ve still got a little sadness in your eyes, but you came home anyway.” You couldn’t speak.

Hiromi lifted your hand, ring still resting in your palm, and brought it to his lips. He kissed your knuckles, your wrist, the place where your pulse stammered beneath your skin. “I want to build the rest of my life like this—with you. Quiet and steady and full of love. I want the hard days. The ordinary days. The movie nights and the tantrums and the bubble baths and the slow mornings.” His voice caught. “I want to raise them with you. Love you through every version of this life we’re still figuring out.” Tears spilled down your cheeks, hot and silent. You were smiling before you even realized it. “Yes,” you breathed and it was simple. No fanfare. No applause. Just your arms around him, the diamond ring clutched between you, his face buried in your neck, the sound of your sons giggling in the background as Totoro flew across the screen in a living, breathing cat bus.

Just you.

Just love.

Just home.

taglist ; @stargirl-mayaa @shibataimu @anakinishotdoe @ohhheymessa @shibataimu @hellovanie @inixox0 @casssiesthings

[suku-enthusiasts]

chapter five || the devil by the river - Ryomen Sukuna

ryomen sukuna x f!reader

❝Two abandoned children—one feared for his cursed power, the other gifted with the ability to make life bloom—run away and build a quiet life by the river. As they grow, so does their love, tender and unspoken, until the world tears it apart. Sukuna as emperor, forging a world where no child suffers as they did. A thousand years later, his beloved is reborn—made of earth, memory, and love—and the world begins to heal again. This is the story of a cursed boy, a blooming girl, and a love strong enough to outlast time.❞

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety. death. graphic scenes

word count ; 3.2k

series masterlist | main masterlist | next

It was late afternoon when it began. The sun had dipped low enough to gild the water’s surface with gold, casting warm shadows across the garden you’d spent years nurturing. You were kneeling in the soil, gentle hands coaxing weeds from between your daikon sprouts, the soft hum of wind through the trees your only companion. A bird chirped from the roof of the little stone house. You smiled, glancing up. Sukuna wasn’t home yet. He’d gone north of the bend, tracking boar tracks near the dense pine stretch, bow strapped to his back and his upper arms rolled loose from his kimono while the bottom sleeves were tied snug to keep his lower hands free. He was strong now — stronger than anyone you'd ever known — but careful. Always careful.

He never let the villagers see him.

Until now.

It happened quietly at first — just the distant snap of a branch. You stood, brushing dirt from your knees, squinting toward the edge of the trees that bordered your land. You expected a deer, or maybe a passing traveler. But what you saw instead was a man — maybe forty, with a fishing basket slung over his shoulder, mouth open mid-step as he stared in horror.

Not at you.

Past you.

Your heart stopped.

You turned.

Sukuna was standing further down the path, just outside the tree line, the boar he had hunted slung over one shoulder, crimson blood dripping down the length of his forearm. His kimono was open at the chest, sleeves loose — and all four of his arms were visible. His face, flushed from exertion, held a familiar, quiet scowl — brows furrowed, expression unreadable — but something else flickered in his eyes.

Surprise.

The man dropped his basket.

And ran.

“Wait—!” you cried, stepping forward. “It’s not what—!” But the man was gone — his sandals kicking up mud as he fled toward the far edge of the trail, cutting toward the river road that led back to the village. You turned to Sukuna, your voice barely a breath. “…He saw.” Sukuna was frozen.

Blood still dripped from his hands. His jaw clenched, that bone-deep tension crawling up his neck like it always did when he was trying not to lose control. For a second — just one flicker of a moment — you thought he might chase the man down and silence him, but instead…

He lowered the boar to the ground, gently. The forest birds stopped singing. “He’ll tell them,” Sukuna said, voice dark and low. “They’ll come.” Your heart was racing. You ran to him, placing both palms on his chest. “Then we pack. Now. We can leave before they—”

“No.” Sukuna’s hand gripped your wrist, not harshly — but firmly. “This is our home.” You stared up at him, stunned by the quiet fury in his voice. He wasn’t angry at you. He wasn’t even afraid. He was done running. For years, he had stayed hidden — tucked his extra arms beneath wide robes, avoided towns, kept his cursed energy folded like silk in his veins. He only ever showed his true form here, with you.

But now?

They would come.

“They’ll try to burn the house,” you whispered. “Or kill you.”

“Let them try,” Sukuna said coldly, all four eyes narrowing. “If they touch you, I’ll slaughter them.” The silence that followed was sharp, you stepped closer. “Sukuna—”

“I’ll protect you,” he said, quieter now. “This time, I’m not hiding.” Your fingers shook as they curled into the fabric at his chest.

You knew what that meant.

He would fight.

He would kill.

He would become the monster they already believed he was — if it meant keeping you safe. 

The sunlight was fading now, staining the clouds with amber. From the ridge beyond the river, you could already see the dust cloud of feet — a cluster of villagers gathering, running, some shouting. Word had spread fast. “Let’s go inside,” you whispered, Sukuna didn’t move. “You built this place with your hands,” you told him, voice thick with emotion. “Let them call you a devil. Let them scream. But don’t give them a reason to be right.” His eyes met yours — hard, red, glowing faintly with cursed energy. “I’m not leaving,” he said. “Not unless you want to.”

“I don’t,” you answered and when he pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly to his chest with all four hands, you could feel it — not fear, but the stillness before a storm.

The shouting came just after sundown, first, the thundering of feet. Then the crackle of torchlight as it broke through the trees. You were standing just inside the doorway of your stone cottage, the scent of roasted fish still lingering from dinner. Your hands trembled against the doorframe. Sukuna was already outside, the sleeves of his black kimono pushed up to his elbows, two of his four arms at his sides, the other two curled protectively behind him — toward you. “They’re here,” he said quietly and then you saw them. At least twenty men from the village — some with blades, others with pitchforks, wooden staves, rocks, anything they could carry — and all of them with torches. Red flames licked the air, their shadows twisted into monstrous shapes. At the front was the fisherman from earlier, pointing, screaming— “There! That’s the cursed one! The demon that’s been living in the woods!” The others echoed him with howls of rage. “He’s got four arms—he’s not human!”

“He’ll bring ruin!”

“He’s possessed!”

“He took a woman too—brainwashed her—made her his slave!” Your breath caught. You moved to step outside, but Sukuna’s lower arm held you back, gently — not roughly, but like iron. “Stay.” You looked at him — he was tall, towering, his face unreadable, but his eyes… his eyes were glowing. “I won’t let them take you,” he said, then the first torch was thrown, it landed at the base of your garden. The second hit the side of the house — dry moss caught instantly, flames climbing fast, licking at the wood-lined frame you and Sukuna had repaired a dozen times. You screamed.

“No—NO—stop—PLEASE—our home—!” Another rock flew past your head, and Sukuna caught it with one hand, crushing it in his palm. His cursed energy flared — the ground beneath him cracked slightly. The air itself trembled.

They threw more.

They threw everything.

The cottage began to burn.

You screamed, tears blinding your vision, pushing past Sukuna’s arm. “We built this—it’s all we had—please, STOP!” But they didn’t, one of the men lunged forward with a sword and that’s when Sukuna moved. In a single motion, he turned, scooped you up in two arms, and leapt away from the burning house — cradling your body close as he landed by the river’s edge. He placed you gently on the grass, gripping your shoulders, his voice low but sharp— “Stay. Right. Here.” Your eyes widened. “Sukuna—” But he was already turning, already walking toward the fire. The wind picked up, pushing smoke toward the river, obscuring your view. You cried out for him, tried to stand, but your legs gave out.

Then… Everything went quiet, the men had stopped shouting and then— A surge of cursed energy exploded from the center of the flames.

You felt it first — a heavy pressure, like the sky was being pulled down into the earth, like the weight of something ancient and furious had awakened. The birds fled. The forest stilled.

You looked up and through the rising fire, you saw him.

Sukuna.

Hair blown wild around his face, all four arms raised — markings pulsing across his chest and shoulders, down his jaw, over his thighs. His mouth was twisted in rage, but his eyes… his eyes were terrifyingly calm.

Then—

Slice.

A man’s head fell from his shoulders before you could even see Sukuna move. Another followed — his body cleaved straight through from shoulder to hip, his scream never finishing and then it was chaos. Sukuna’s cursed technique danced from his fingertips like threads of invisible silk — slicing, shredding, cutting down any man who came near. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t even loud.

It was clean.

Effortless.

Like death itself had taken form and now walked on two legs.

Men screamed. Ran. Fell. Begged.

But Sukuna didn’t stop.

He protected the river. He protected the memory of your home.

He protected you.

And by the time the fire had eaten through the roof of your cottage, only two villagers remained — frozen, too terrified to move. Sukuna stood in front of them, breathing heavily, blood splattered across his body, he raised a hand and then slowly lowered it. “I spared you,” he said, voice low and cold. “Run. Tell them this land is mine.” The men didn’t wait, they fled into the trees, screaming into the night, you didn’t move. You were still kneeling by the river, hands shaking, tears tracking down your cheeks as you stared at the flames, and at the man who had just become something you didn’t have words for. When Sukuna finally turned back to you, his chest was heaving — blood still dripping from his knuckles. His expression cracked as he saw you. He ran to you, kneeling down, scooping you into his arms, you sobbed into his chest. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.” You shook your head, clinging to him. “They… they burned it… it’s all gone…”

“No,” he said, holding your face. “You’re not gone. That’s all I care about.” And as the flames behind you finally began to die, and the smoke curled into the night sky, you realized— that night, the villagers didn’t create a monster, they woke one and that monster would burn the world for you.

The fire had long died, ash floated like snow, curling across the river’s surface, clinging to the garden soil that once grew herbs under your care. You were asleep beneath the open sky, lips parted faintly, curled onto your side on the cool grass beside the riverbank. You didn’t feel the footsteps near you, but Sukuna did not let himself wake you. Instead, he knelt beside you in silence. Your hair was tangled, eyes still puffy from the night’s tears, dirt and smoke smudging your skin. You looked breakable. Small. As if the world could crush you if it wanted to.

But Sukuna wouldn’t let it.

Not again.

He shrugged off his outer robe — the thick black one you’d sewn the golden stitching into — and draped it over your body. His fingers lingered at your temple, brushing a curl behind your ear. His hand was warm. Then, he leaned in. Pressed a kiss — soft, deliberate — to your forehead. “I’ll be back,” he murmured and then he was gone.

The village was quiet when he arrived, too quiet. Like the people inside had already heard the rumors. Like their sleep was shallow, hearts pounding just beneath their ribs. Lanterns still flickered along the walls, but the gates were unguarded now — they assumed the "demon" had been driven off.

They assumed wrong.

Sukuna didn’t hesitate.

He walked straight through the open gate, cursed energy already coiled around him like an invisible storm. The first house was ash in moments.

The next collapsed from a sweep of his arm — a gash of cursed technique slicing through it cleanly, timber falling like matchsticks. He did not scream. He did not roar. He simply walked, and anything that tried to stand in his way died before it could take two steps. Villagers screamed.

The ones who had thrown torches at your home… Sukuna remembered their faces. He carved them down in a breath, painting the streets red.

Then he stopped, because ahead, in the town square, a group of men — maybe drunk, maybe cruel — had surrounded a child. A little one. White-haired. Crying.

Uraume.

The child was trembling, barefoot and barely clothed, face bloody from a slap, lip split. One of the men lifted a hand to strike again— Crack.

Frost exploded from the child’s feet, the man froze mid-scream, ice racing up his legs, over his torso, crystallizing the flesh until he was nothing but a statue — brittle and lifeless. Sukuna watched it unfold, he saw the fear in the child’s eyes and something old, buried, snarled awake inside him, he moved forward. The remaining men fell before they saw his face, Uraume looked up, eyes wide, silent tears falling. “W-what…?” the child whispered, Sukuna crouched beside them. “You have cursed energy.” The child nodded shakily. “They’ll kill you for it,” he said. “You’ll die here.”

Uraume’s lip trembled. “I don’t wanna die.”

“You won’t.” Sukuna stood. “Wait here. I’ll come back for you.” The child stared up at him — like he was a god, a monster, or something worse and then Sukuna turned toward the mountain.

Toward the capital.

Toward the Emperor.

He did not walk this time.

He soared.

His cursed energy carried him above the forest, through the mist-soaked trees, wind whipping through his hair like black ribbon. He landed at the bottom of the great staircase of the Emperor’s estate — where hundreds of guards waited, Sukuna didn’t slow down. The first hundred died in the blink of an eye — sliced clean through the waist, their armor split like silk. Arrows bounced off his skin. Blades shattered at his feet. He tore through their walls like they were paper, his eyes glowing red with fury and power. Screams rang across the capital, a general dropped to his knees, begging mercy — Sukuna beheaded him with a flick of two fingers. By the time he reached the topmost courtyard, the Emperor’s retainers were dragging their lord out of the temple, wide-eyed with terror. “Who is that—who is he—?!” They had no time to answer. Sukuna landed before them, tall as a nightmare, robes soaked in blood, hair wild and eyes bright like twin suns. His body pulsed with energy no human should possess.

“You rule over a land,” Sukuna said, “where monsters are born and children are burned for power they never asked for.” The Emperor could not speak. “You let them call me cursed.” Sukuna raised a hand. “And now, I curse you.” In a single strike, the Emperor’s head rolled across the stone. His blood ran down the marble steps, painting them crimson. Japan would never be the same and neither would he.

You woke alone, with the faint scent of smoke still clinging to the wind. Sukuna’s outer robe was draped around you like a blanket — heavy, worn, and still warm where his body had been. The moment you touched it, your chest ached. Your fingers curled into the fabric, pulling it close to your nose.

He was gone.

You sat up slowly by the riverbank, the remains of your home nothing more than blackened timber and smoldering stone in the distance. A crow cried overhead. Then… the trees stirred, you looked up and there he was. Walking toward you — silent, tall, covered in blood. Not just spattered across his chest and arms, but soaked into his robes, smeared along his neck, staining the cursed marks carved into his skin. His long pale pink hair hung loose and wild, streaked with soot and ash. He looked like something out of a war tale — a ghost, a devil, or a god. But in his arms, there was a child, you stood without a word. Sukuna stopped just before you, saying nothing. His chest rose and fell slowly. He didn’t look angry. Or triumphant.

Just quiet.

Unreadable.

He set the small child down gently beside you. Their little face was bruised and tear-streaked, white hair a tangled mess, eyes swollen and rimmed red. They clung to the edge of his sleeve with tiny fingers, trembling like a leaf, you dropped to your knees in front of them. “Oh, sweetheart…” The child flinched — but then paused when you reached out, pulling Sukuna’s outer robe off your shoulders and wrapping it around them instead. The heavy fabric swallowed their little form, and they let out a shaky sob against your chest. “I got them,” Sukuna said, voice flat.

You looked up at him and though your hands were shaking, your eyes did not flinch. You rose again, walking closer, reaching up to touch the side of his bloodied face.

“Sukuna.” He blinked. His eyes flickered to yours — still glowing, still burning faintly from within, you cupped his cheek and you smiled. “I don’t care what you did.” He stared at you, silent. “I don’t care if the rivers flood with it. If the sky turns red. I don’t care what burns or who falls. You are the only thing that’s ever been mine, and I love you more than the hate in your heart.” Something cracked in his gaze, you stood on your toes, pressing your forehead to his — uncaring of the blood between you. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, then he pulled back slightly and said simply— “Follow me.” You turned to lift the child — still wrapped in his robe — onto your hip. They were small and light, nearly falling asleep again against your shoulder and without another word, you followed him into the trees.

The walk took hours, you crossed streams, climbed moss-covered slopes, passed shrines long-forgotten in the deep forest. Sukuna didn’t speak once — but he kept glancing back to make sure you were close, that you hadn’t fallen behind. Eventually, the trees opened and you saw it.

The Emperor’s estate, or what remained of it. The gates stood open — stained in dried blood. Guards lay scattered like dolls across the stairs, the once-great banners of the imperial house torn down and tossed aside. It should have been terrifying, but instead, you felt only quiet. Like something old had finally died… and something new was ready to begin, Sukuna turned to you as you reached the courtyard. “This is ours now,” he said, you looked up at him — your eyes soft, your arms full of the child he’d saved. “Then we’ll make it a home.” He stepped forward, brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear. His bloodied hand trembled slightly. His voice was lower now, almost unsure. “I want to keep you here. Safe. Both of you.” You nodded and even as the weight of death still hung thick in the air, you believed him. Because in a world that never gave him anything, Sukuna had made his own empire — for you.

[suku-enthusiasts]

My Current Boyfriend Keeps Beating My Exes Ass - Ryomen Sukuna

masterlist | word count ; 3.4k

cw ; sukuna violent per usual. fluff. smutty.

The first time you met Sukuna, you thought he was going to bite your head off. Not in the “oh, he’s a little intimidating” way — no, this man looked like he ate people for sport. Six-foot-five, built like someone carved him out of stone, pale buzzed-pink hair catching the light, and a face so sharp it could’ve sliced bread. He was leaning against Shoko’s car when you pulled up, arms crossed, tattoos flexing with the shift of his biceps.

Your fingers curled tighter around your purse strap.

Shoko had promised, He’s nice. He’s a friend. You’ll like him— and sure, Shoko was a doctor, but you were 90% sure she was lying through her teeth. He didn’t even greet you — just let his eyes roam over you slowly, like he was trying to figure out if you were worth his time. Then he finally said, “…So you’re the one she’s been talking about.” It wasn’t exactly friendly, but it wasn’t mean either. More like he was making a note of you — stashing away details for later, you swallowed, managing a quiet, “Hi.” Shoko, of course, had no sense of tension. She grinned and patted your shoulder. “She’s shy. Be nice.”

“Am bein’ nice,” Sukuna muttered, though his gaze softened just a touch when you met his eyes again. Like maybe he’d decided you were fine.

By the end of the night, you’d realized the giant, scary man was actually… weirdly sweet. He didn’t just open doors for you — he held them until you were fully inside. He’d lower his head to actually hear you when you spoke, even if you were whispering and when Shoko left you two at the bar to “grab more napkins” (which you later realized was code for let me go shove you into each other’s lives), he’d leaned closer and said, “You always this quiet, or you just don’t like me yet?” You’d laughed — a real laugh — and he’d grinned like he’d just won a prize.

You hadn’t told many people the full truth about Sato, the boyfriend prior to your teddy bear Suku. Most people just… knew you’d gotten out of a bad relationship, but they didn’t know the bones of it — the ugly parts, the way it had chewed you up and spat you out.

It had started small.

Little comments. Little controls. “Wear this instead.” “Don’t talk to him.” “Why do you have to go out without me?” You thought it was just possessiveness, maybe even misguided love.

By the end, you’d stopped recognizing yourself in the mirror — and not just because of the bruises. That last fight… Three ribs cracked, a popped vein in your eye, your whole face swollen and purple. You’d crawled away from that apartment with your phone clutched in your hand, blood on your shirt, and the quiet, desperate realization that you might not survive another day with him. Shoko had been the one to find you, the one to bring you to safety, the one to never ask questions you couldn’t answer yet. It took a year before you could breathe without feeling like someone was watching your every move. A year before you let yourself believe that maybe—not definitely, but maybe—you could meet someone who wouldn’t use love like a weapon (like your darling Suku Wuku).

Then the shouting started.

The shoves came next.

You and Sukuna had been seeing each other for a month when it happened, you were sitting on the floor of his apartment, your legs curled under you while he leaned against the couch, sipping a beer. The TV was on, but neither of you were really watching. He’d been patient with you from the start — shockingly so. Sukuna Itadori, the man who looked like he could snap a neck for fun, never rushed you, never pressed you to talk. But that night, he’d noticed the way you flinched when he’d moved too fast to grab the remote.

“It’s because… someone did,” you admitted quietly, Sukuna didn’t say anything, just set his beer down and turned toward you fully, one arm resting on his knee.

“You always do that,” he said, not accusing, just observing. “When someone moves too quick near you.” Your heart thudded. “Do what?”

“That little… pull-back thing,” he said, mimicking the slight jerk of your shoulders. “Like you’re getting ready for someone to swing at you.” You stared down at your hands, twisting your fingers together. For a second, you thought about brushing it off, making a joke. But something in his voice — low, curious, not demanding — made you exhale.

How Sato had started sweet and protective, how that sweetness had rotted into control and cruelty. How the shouting had become hitting, how the hitting had become a beating so bad you thought you might die. You didn’t leave out the broken ribs, the eye, the bruises. You told him how Shoko found you. How, for months afterward, you’d jump at shadows, sleep with the lights on, avoid mirrors. By the time you finished, your throat was tight and your hands were cold.

You told him.

Everything.

Sukuna hadn’t moved.

But there was something dangerous simmering behind his eyes now — something sharp and alive. His jaw worked once, twice, before he finally said, “If I ever see him, I’ll break every fuckin’ bone in his body.” You gave a shaky laugh, but it didn’t feel like a joke. “That’s… kind of the problem. I don’t trust people. Not the way I used to. It’s hard for me to believe they won’t—”

“Hurt you?” he finished for you, you nodded. He leaned forward then, his big palm cupping the side of your face with surprising gentleness. His thumb stroked over your cheekbone. “I’m not him,” he said, voice low but steady. “I’m never gonna be him. You hear me? You tell me ‘stop,’ I stop. You tell me ‘no,’ I fuckin’ stop. Only thing I’m ever gonna do with these hands is touch you the way you want, and make sure nobody else gets near enough to try anything else.” It wasn’t poetry. It wasn’t soft-spoken romance. But it was the first time in a long time you believed someone when they said you were safe and when, months later, Sato showed up for the first time and Sukuna kept that promise — fists, fury, and all — you knew there was no going back.

That was two years ago.

Now? He was still a big, rude, vulgar teddy bear for you. Still called you “baby” with his hands in your hair and “princess” when he was making fun of you. Still couldn’t keep his hands to himself — whether it was pulling you into his lap, rubbing your thigh under the table, or leaning over in public just to murmur something filthy in your ear, but there was one tiny CONTINUOUS problem…

If there was a hell reserved for running into an ex, you were living in it. Because no matter where you and Sukuna went — coffee shop, ramen place, bookstore, hell, even the damn phone store — Sato would be there and Sukuna? Oh, he’d beat his ass. Every. Single. Time.

Sato.

Your waste of oxygen ex-boyfriend.

The first time had been kind of justified — Sato had opened his mouth and called you “his girl” like you were still together. Sukuna had smiled (which was never a good sign) and then introduced Sato’s face to the nearest wall. But now? It had gotten to the point where you didn’t know if the universe was cursed or if Sato was actually paranoid for a reason — because after the sixth public beatdown, he started looking over his shoulder everywhere he went, like Sukuna was some kind of apex predator tracking prey…Which, to be fair, wasn’t totally wrong.

It was supposed to be a normal coffee run. You were standing in line, scrolling through your phone, Sukuna behind you with one massive palm resting low on your hip, thumb brushing lazy circles against the waistband of your leggings. You’d already picked your drink — he always ordered the same thing, black coffee, no sugar, no fun — when a familiar, unwelcome voice slithered in from somewhere behind you.

“Kuna. Please. Not here.” He stared you down, jaw flexing, eyes flicking past you to Sato like he was calculating how many punches it would take. Finally, he exhaled sharply through his nose, muttering, “You’re lucky she’s here, prick,” before letting you tug him back toward the counter.

“…Y/N?” You froze, Sukuna felt it instantly, the way your body went stiff under his hand. His head lifted, eyes narrowing before he even turned around and there he was. Sato. Looking like he’d just crawled out of a bad hangover — sunglasses indoors, cheap leather jacket, and that same smug face that had made you want to vomit even when you were dating. The exact moment Sato’s gaze flicked over you and landed on Sukuna’s hand gripping your hip, you knew this was about to go downhill fast, Sukuna’s voice was a low growl. “What the fuck is he doing here?”

“It’s a public coffee shop,” you whispered, trying to elbow him gently. “Please, just… don’t.” But Sukuna was already shifting his weight, shoulders rolling forward, that look settling over his face — the one you’d seen five other times right before he made Sato regret existing. You planted yourself in front of him like a human barricade.

Sato, looking like he’d just been spared by the grim reaper, slunk to the far corner of the café.

The second you got into your apartment, you barely had your shoes off before Sukuna kicked the door shut behind you. “You’re evil, you know that?” His voice was low, rasping, like he’d been holding something back for too long. “Making me walk away from that little shit.” You started to protest, but he was already crowding you against the wall, his breath hot against your cheek. “You owe me.” And then his mouth crashed onto yours — all teeth and heat and hunger. You barely had time to gasp before his hands were everywhere, shoving your coat off your shoulders, fingers sliding under your top to cup your waist, your ribs, your breasts.

“Sukuna—” you breathed, but he was already tugging your leggings down, his big hands impatient, rough in the way that made your knees go weak. “Let me eat you out,” he growled against your lips. “Right now. Since you wouldn’t let me beat his ass, I’m gonna have to put my mouth and hands to better use.” You whimpered when his hands hooked under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly and carrying you to the couch. He sat down with you straddling his lap, but only for a moment — just long enough to peel your underwear down and toss them somewhere behind him.

Then he was dragging you forward, settling you against the broad expanse of his chest before lowering you onto the cushions, his shoulders sliding between your knees.

“Spread for me, princess,” he muttered, his palms pressing your thighs wide. “Gonna make you forget that loser’s name. Gonna make you forget your own name.” The first stroke of his tongue had you arching, fingers tangling in the soft buzz of his hair. He groaned like he’d been starving, like this was the only thing that could cool the fire in him. Every flick, every slow drag over your clit was deliberate — teasing, then deep, then back to light again, like he wanted to keep you trembling just out of reach.

“You taste better than anything I’ve ever had,” he rasped against you, voice shaking with want. “You think I care about Sato when I’ve got this? Huh?” Your answer was a broken moan, your thighs trembling as he pinned you open and devoured you like he was making up for every fight you’d stopped him from having. His grip was firm, unyielding, but every sound you made softened his eyes, made him hum against you in that possessive, almost worshipful way. When you finally came, it was with your back arched and his name spilling from your lips in desperate, breathless pleas. He didn’t stop until you tugged at his ears and face, gasping for air, and even then he kissed you like he couldn’t stand to be apart for more than a second. “Next time I see him,” he murmured against your mouth, “I’m gettin’ my two-for-one — beat his ass and fuck you after.”

You were still catching your breath when Sukuna finally pulled back, his mouth glistening, eyes hooded and dangerous. He swiped the back of his hand over his mouth, smirking like a man who’d just finished a five-course meal. “You’re not done,” he rasped, voice thick with promise. His hands slid under your thighs again, and before you could even think of protesting, he stood up — lifting you like you weighed nothing.

“Kuna—” you started, but it dissolved into a squeak when he adjusted his grip so your bare heat was pressed against the hard line in his sweats. He walked toward the bedroom without breaking eye contact, his expression pure, smug satisfaction. “You know what my problem is, princess?” His tone was almost conversational, except for the way his fingers were digging into your ass. “You keep telling me not to beat that little fucker’s ass. So now I’ve got all this extra energy, and I’m gonna use it to ruin you instead.”

The door hit the wall when he kicked it open. He tossed you onto the bed, and you bounced once before he was over you, stripping his shirt in one smooth pull. The tattoos on his chest and arms shifted with every movement, shadows and lines framing muscle that looked carved, lethal.

“You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this,” he muttered, eyes dragging down your body. “All flushed, legs still shaky. Wanna keep you like this all night.”

You shivered when his hands caught the hem of your shirt and peeled it over your head, his palms instantly sliding up your sides. He cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they hardened, his smirk widening when you arched into his touch.

“Sensitive today, huh?” he teased, leaning down to kiss the soft skin just above your collarbone, then lower, then lower still until his tongue was circling a peak. You moaned, fingers threading into the pale pink buzz of his hair. He pulled back only long enough to strip the rest of his clothes, his cock already thick and heavy, flushed at the tip. You stared, lip caught between your teeth, and his smirk turned sharp.

“See somethin’ you like?”

You swallowed hard, but before you could answer, he was crawling over you again, his weight sinking the mattress. One big hand grabbed your jaw, tilting your head back so he could kiss you — deep, wet, claiming — while the other slid between your thighs. He didn’t rush. He teased you, dragging his fingers through your slick folds, groaning low in his chest. “This is mine,” he growled, two fingers slipping inside you with an easy stretch. “All of you is mine. And I’m gonna fuck you so good you forget anyone else ever touched you.” You gasped when he curled his fingers just right, brushing that spot that made your vision blur. Your nails dug into his shoulders, and he grinned like he wanted you to mark him up.

When he finally lined himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, he held still for a moment, his eyes locked on yours. “Gonna take it all for me, princess?” he asked, voice low and almost tender under the filth, you nodded, breathless. “Yes.” That was all he needed. He pushed in slow at first — just enough to let you feel every inch stretching you open — but once he was seated deep, his patience snapped. His hips slammed into yours, the bed frame groaning under the force.

Every thrust was hard, deliberate, his hands gripping your waist to drag you into him. He kissed you between gritted teeth, swallowing your moans, breaking only to mutter against your lips:

Your legs wrapped around his hips, holding him close, and he groaned when you clenched around him. “Yeah, just like that. Keep doin’ that and I’ll fill you so deep you’ll feel me for days.” His pace was relentless, the sound of skin on skin mixing with your breathless cries. You could feel yourself unraveling, every muscle tightening as he fucked you through the aftershocks of the first orgasm and into another. When you came again, it was messy — your nails raking his back, your head tipping back against the pillows. He followed a moment later, grinding deep with a low, guttural groan as heat spilled inside you.

“Fuck, you feel perfect.”

“Made for me.”

“Not lettin’ you walk tomorrow.”

He stayed there for a beat, chest heaving, his big hands still framing your hips like he couldn’t stand the thought of letting go. Then, with a smug little smirk, he leaned down to kiss you again — slow this time, almost sweet. “Next time,” he murmured against your lips, “I’m not holdin’ back. Sato gets the beating, and you still get this.”

After, you lay there boneless, your body humming in that floaty, wrecked way only Sukuna could give you. He kissed your forehead, muttering something about “getting your ass in the bath before your legs give out,” and padded into the bathroom.

The sound of running water filled the apartment, and you smiled lazily when you heard him rummaging in the cupboard for your favorite bath salts. He reappeared shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, and leaned over to press a slow kiss to your mouth.

The takeout place was only ten minutes away. Sukuna had his hands shoved in his hoodie pocket, already thinking about how smug you were gonna look eating dumplings in the bath. He stepped inside, scanned the counter— And froze.

“Bath’s ready,” he murmured, thumb brushing your jaw. “Gonna go grab us some takeout while you soak. You want the usual?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, still too blissed out to form full sentences.

“Good girl,” he said with that crooked smirk, kissing you one more time before heading for the door.

Sato.

Standing there like a deer in headlights, clutching a paper bag and looking like the universe had personally wronged him. “Hey, man,” Sato stammered, holding up his free hand. “I—I don’t want any problems.” Sukuna’s grin was slow, predatory. He rolled his neck until it popped, then cracked his knuckles one by one. “Funny thing, Sato…” he drawled, taking a step forward. “I do.” There wasn’t much more conversation after that. One second Sato was mumbling something about “just getting dinner,” and the next he was eating tile. The cashier yelped and ducked behind the counter as Sukuna’s fist connected with Sato’s jaw, then his ribs, then—just for good measure—his jaw again.

By the time Sukuna was done, Sato was groaning on the floor, swearing under his breath like it might summon a doctor. Sukuna adjusted his hoodie like nothing happened, stepped over him, and strolled to the counter. “Order for Itadori,” he said casually, sliding a card across the counter. The cashier, still wide-eyed, wordlessly handed him the bag. Sukuna took it, gave Sato one last satisfied look, and headed for the door. For the first time all night, he felt completely, utterly fulfilled.

When he got back, you were still in the bath, hair damp against your shoulders, eyes heavy with relaxation. He set the bag on the counter, wandered in, and leaned against the doorway. “You look happy,” you said, arching a brow. “Got the food,” he replied, smirk tugging at his lips. “And… dessert.” You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Sukuna… what did you do?”

“Nothing,” he said innocently, crossing the room to kiss you. “Just worked up an appetite.” You groaned, half in exasperation, half because you knew exactly what that meant. “Next time, I’m sending Shoko to get the takeout.”

“Fine,” he muttered against your skin. “As long as I still get to eat something when I get back.”

authors note ; I haven't written just a one shot in forevaaa, here ya go

[suku-enthusiasts]

chapter fourteen || chonk in charge - s. geto

suguru geto x f!reader

❝She loved him through the storm—through the silence of hospital halls and the jagged weight of recovery. Suguru had once been her everything, her always. But healing reshaped him, softened his love into something quiet, unpromising. He no longer dreamed of vows. He no longer wished for children. And yet, there she stood—pregnant, unraveling, and alone in the spaces he left behind. Then came Hiromi. Steady. Patient. Unassuming. What began as co-parenting slowly bled into something gentler, something sacred. Through lullabies and court dates, aching laughter and late-night tenderness, a new kind of love was born—not loud or reckless, but steady as the earth. This is a story about losing the future you thought you’d have, and finding grace in the one you never imagined. About loving two men in different lifetimes of your heart—and the quiet, unshakable strength of choosing peace after pain.❞

word count ; 6.4k

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety. death. graphic scenes

series masterlist | next

Sosuke had learned to clap. Not perfectly. Sometimes he missed and smacked his own thigh or flailed with the uncoordinated joy of a baby too excited for his own limbs. But when he did manage it—chubby hands meeting in a soft pat-pat—he beamed like he’d won a gold medal and everyone in the house clapped along with him. That morning, he’d been perched in his highchair in the kitchen, wearing a bib that read 

“Chonk in Charge.” 

Kaito was dancing around in superhero pajamas, waving a spoon like a sword, and Hiromi was trying valiantly to make pancakes while flipping them one-handed and holding a baby bottle with the other. You sat at the table, warm coffee cupped between your palms, your robe cinched at the waist, your smile worn-in and sleepy. Home was loud now, full, a fridge covered in drawings and milestone photos. Kaito’s room was the one beside the nursery, where stuffed animals lined the windowsill and a nightlight shaped like a rocket ship glowed soft blue at dusk. Hiromi had officially moved in when Sosuke was four months old, though the two of you had quietly begun dating at two. It was a little rushed. But it wasn’t wild. It was… gentle. Like a hand reaching for yours in the dark and never letting go. He still asked before kissing you. Still waited for you to nod before crawling into bed beside you at night, where Sosuke’s baby monitor blinked soft green on the nightstand. Sosuke let out a delighted squeal from his chair, smashing a piece of banana against his tray. “Bah bah bah!” he crowed, cheeks rosy, curls damp from the morning bath you’d given him. “Sir,” Hiromi said, pointing the spatula like a warning. “You better not throw that.” Sosuke grinned, then threw it. You laughed behind your coffee mug. Kaito gasped like a scandalized witness. “Papa! He did it on purpose!”

“I know, buddy,” Hiromi said, sighing. “That’s what makes it hurt.” The doorbell rang, you glanced up, already smiling. “That’s Suguru.” Hiromi nodded, flipping the last pancake onto the plate. “I got the food. You get the door.” You padded barefoot across the warm floorboards, the familiar rhythm of your life unfolding behind you: the clatter of utensils, Kaito narrating his superhero storyline, the soft babble of your son. The house felt alive. Lived in. You opened the door. Suguru stood there in a slate button-up and dark slacks, hair half-tied, the rest brushing his shoulders. He held a bag of groceries in one hand and a soft toy in the other—a stuffed octopus that rattled when shaken. “He was chewing on a teething ring last time,” he said by way of greeting. “Figured I’d upgrade him.” You smiled, stepping aside. “You’re spoiling him.”

“He deserves it.” He stepped in, slipping off his shoes, glancing toward the kitchen where Kaito waved excitedly. “Hi Mister Suguru!” Suguru gave him a small wave back. “Hey, champ.” Hiromi turned from the stove, nodding once. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Suguru returned, voice even. They spoke easily now. Respectfully. Like men who’d learned how to share something without bruising each other over it. Conversations were about feeding schedules, nap routines, diaper brands and now—weekends.

You alternated.

Some weekends, Sosuke stayed with you. Some, he went to Suguru’s—where you’d packed extra onesies and bath toys and a blanket that smelled like home. Suguru sent photos now—little updates of Sosuke chewing on his favorite spoon or falling asleep on Suguru’s chest, pacifier slipping from his lips. Last weekend, Suguru had taken both Sosuke and Kaito out for ice cream. Kaito came back with a new hat. Sosuke came back with strawberry in his hair. Hiromi hadn’t said a word. Just cleaned Sosuke’s curls and tucked the receipt in the drawer labeled “memories.” Now, Suguru walked over to the highchair, where Sosuke immediately began to squeal and kick. “Hey,” Suguru murmured, crouching down. “You remember me?” Sosuke babbled something incomprehensible, then clapped, Suguru blinked. “He claps now?”

“He’s been clapping for two weeks,” you said, coming up beside him. “I didn’t know,” Suguru whispered, more to himself than anyone. Then, louder: “Can I hold him?”

“Of course.” Hiromi passed over a warm wipe, and you gently cleaned Sosuke’s sticky fingers before lifting him from the highchair and placing him carefully into Suguru’s arms. The baby immediately nestled against him, grabbing a fistful of shirt and gnawing on his own wrist. “He’s teething hard,” you said. “I can feel it,” Suguru murmured, rocking gently. His voice dipped, quiet. “He’s getting so big.”

“He’s got your pout,” you teased, watching the way Suguru held him. “I do not pout.” You raised a brow. Hiromi snorted behind you. Kaito shouted, “You do!” Suguru rolled his eyes. You all gathered at the table a moment later. Kaito sat beside Suguru, showing off his newest drawing. You poured more coffee. Hiromi plated pancakes and passed around maple syrup like it was currency. The kitchen buzzed softly with morning warmth.

Suguru leaned back in his chair after a while, Sosuke still in his arms, the baby’s head tucked against his shoulder. Then, out of nowhere, Suguru said it. Quiet. Strained.

“It’s hard.” You looked up. “What is?” He didn’t meet your eyes at first. “It’s hard thinking about someone else helping raise my son.” The words weren’t bitter. Just… heavy. Full of quiet truth. Hiromi stilled, setting his fork down with care. Suguru continued, eyes now on Sosuke’s hand curled around his collar. “It’s hard knowing I don’t get to wake up to him. Or kiss his forehead goodnight. It’s hard knowing he might call someone else ‘Dad’ by mistake someday.” You swallowed gently, voice low. “He knows you.” Suguru nodded. “I know. I just…” He looked at you then. “I wish I had done things differently. So I wouldn’t have to think about another man moving into your space. His space. Our space.” Hiromi said nothing. He didn’t have to. His presence was steady, not defensive. He knew it wasn’t about rivalry.

It was about regret.

You reached across the table, placing your hand over Suguru’s, fingers brushing where Sosuke’s were curled. “You are his dad,” you said. “That won’t change. But this is his family now. All of us. And we make space for you. Every day.” Suguru exhaled, blinking fast, Sosuke made a sleepy sound and in that moment—across pancakes, baby babble, and shared mornings—you felt the shape of your family settle deeper into place.

Suguru stayed a little longer after breakfast, his plate cleared, Sosuke snoozing in his arms, lips pursed around the edge of a pacifier. Kaito had taken to whispering instructions like a tiny general—“Hold his neck. Rock slow. He likes when you hum.” Suguru nodded along each time, a quiet smile tucked at the corner of his mouth. By late afternoon, the sun melted down the sky in shades of peach and tangerine. You moved around the nursery packing a small overnight bag—extra wipes, two pacifiers (one already chewed), a fresh onesie, and his favorite burp cloth that somehow still smelled like that newborn softness you never wanted to forget. “Text me when you get home,” you said, zipping the bag and handing it over.

Suguru adjusted the car seat in the crook of his elbow, rocking it gently with one hand. “I will.” He looked down at Sosuke, still blinking sleepily, cheeks warm with the kind of softness only babies carried. “We’ll be back after lunch tomorrow.”

“I know,” you said. “He’s going to be fine.” Suguru nodded, and his eyes lingered just a moment longer—on the hallway behind you, the fridge with drawings, the laundry basket with tiny socks. The home he no longer lived in. The life he still touched, but only in intervals. He kissed the top of Sosuke’s head, glanced once more at you, then stepped out the door, you closed it softly behind him. The silence that followed was strange—but not sad. Just still. Kaito had been picked up at Hiromi’s parents’ after breakfast. They always insisted on taking him for a full weekend once a month—

“So you two lovebirds remember how to date,” 

Hiromi’s mom had said with a wink, handing over a tin of cookies and Hiromi, always observant, always gentle, came up behind you now as you stood in the living room, still watching the door like your body hadn’t quite registered the hush that came with your son’s absence. He wrapped his arms around you from behind, his chin resting against your shoulder. “You okay?” he asked quietly, his voice low and smooth in your ear, you nodded. “Yeah. Just… nights without him are always hard” Hiromi hummed, arms tightening just slightly. “That’s a big deal.” You leaned back into him, your fingers brushing lightly over his forearm. “I know he’s safe.”

“He is,” he said, kissing your shoulder through the fabric of your shirt. He stayed like that for a while, the two of you just breathing in the quiet of your own house, empty in a way that felt both strange and sacred. Then he pulled back enough to look at you, still holding you close. “I was thinking,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, “maybe we should go out tonight.” You blinked, surprised. “Out?” Hiromi grinned. “You remember what that is, right? Leaving the house? No spit-up? Shoes that aren’t made for running after a baby?” You laughed softly, leaning into his chest. “Barely. It’s a distant memory.”

“I want to take you somewhere,” he said, eyes warm, steady. “Get dinner. Maybe a movie. Something simple. Just you and me. You’ve been everything lately—teacher, mother, peacemaker… I want to remind you you’re still a woman, too. My woman.” Your heart swelled at that, you tilted your head back, giving him a slow smile. “You’re good at this.” Hiromi’s hand trailed gently along your waist. “At what?”

“Making me feel… chosen.” His expression softened, almost shy. “It’s easy when you’re all I want.” You bit your lip, pulse low and warm in your throat. “I could go for a movie,” you murmured. “Or sushi. I haven’t had decent sushi in months.” He brushed his nose against yours. “Why not both?” You grinned. “Look at you, spoiling me.” He kissed your cheek. “Someone has to.” You reached up and looped your arms around his neck, still swaying slightly in place. “Give me fifteen minutes. I want to put on something that doesn’t smell like baby lotion.”

“I’ll be here,” he said, letting you go with a smile. “Counting down the minutes.” And as you slipped away toward the bedroom, the soft scent of your perfume still lingering from this morning, Hiromi watched you disappear down the hallway—his hands in his pockets, his heart full and steady, already planning which dessert to steal bites of when your plate was too full. No lullaby played, no door closed. The house simply exhaled— ready for what came next.

The restaurant was quiet, tucked away between two bookstores you loved, lit by warm amber sconces and the soft clatter of plates and laughter behind linen-draped tables. You and Hiromi shared a roll platter, his sleeve brushing yours every time he reached for the soy sauce. His knee pressed gently against yours beneath the table, and when you looked up at him, he smiled like he already knew what was coming next. But it was the movie theater after dinner where everything changed pace. Only five other people sat scattered across the velvet rows, two of them asleep before the trailers even started. The theater was dim, the air cool and hushed. You were nestled into the crook of Hiromi’s arm, feet tucked beneath you, the bucket of popcorn between you and a cold soda sweating in the cup holder.

Hiromi had that look on his face.

The one that spelled trouble.

His fingers reached into the popcorn, brushing yours once. Then twice. Then a third time, slower, deliberate, like he wasn’t even pretending to grab anything anymore. You raised a brow, smirking. “Are you seriously copping a feel in the popcorn bucket?” He leaned closer, voice low in your ear. “No. But now that you mention it, the real prize is buttery soft and warm.” You snorted quietly, biting back laughter. “You’re an idiot.”

“An idiot in love,” he murmured, brushing his lips against your temple. “The most dangerous kind.” You nudged him with your elbow. “We’re in public.” He grinned, not even pretending to be sorry. “So? It’s dark. And you wore that dress on purpose.” You looked down. It wasn’t anything scandalous—just a soft cotton sundress with a gentle neckline, something easy, something light. But Hiromi always noticed the smallest details. The curve of your collarbone. The way your thighs pressed together. The part in your hair. “I wore it because it’s comfortable.”

“And because you knew I’d want to get my hands under it later.” Your breath hitched. You turned to him, eyes narrowing. “You keep saying things like that, and we’re not going to make it to the credits.” He tilted his head, all mock-innocence. “Promise?” You laughed under your breath, cheeks warm. Hiromi’s hand settled lightly on your thigh then. Not high. Not inappropriate. Just… there. A quiet claim. His thumb moved slowly, brushing soft circles through the fabric of your dress. You shifted in your seat, breath catching just slightly as the screen flickered in front of you—colors bleeding over your skin like a slow fire. “You’re not playing fair,” you whispered, your voice soft and warning. “Not trying to,” he murmured, kissing just beneath your jaw. “You look too damn good when you’re trying to pretend you’re not already wet.” You clenched your thighs together, heart skipping.

His hand inched a little higher. “I could make you come like this,” he whispered, breath hot against your ear. “Slow. Quiet. Right here.” You inhaled sharply, your fingers tightening around the armrest. Hiromi kissed your cheek, voice all silk and sin. “But I’d rather do it right. At home. Spread out on our bed. Let you beg.” You turned to him, lips parted, eyes wide in the low light. “You’re evil.” He smirked. “You love it.” You did and you weren’t going to last the rest of the movie.

The movie ended, but you couldn’t remember the final scenes. Not the music, not the credits, not even the awkward laughter of the couple two rows up as they stumbled out before the lights fully came on. All you could think about was Hiromi’s hand.

Still on your thigh.

His fingers never moved higher. Not quite. But they stayed—curled gently just above your knee, heat bleeding through the soft cotton of your dress, a reminder of everything he hadn’t done yet. You walked to the car in silence, his hand brushing your back as he opened the door for you, his eyes dark under the marquee lights. He didn’t say much, but the way he looked at you… it was low and heavy and full of intent. Once you were inside, the engine humming to life, the radio turned down to a whisper, he let his hand drift back.

Right where it had been.

That same spot.

Your thigh.

This time, his thumb moved.

Circles. Lazy. Possessive.

You tried to look out the window, but the streetlights flashing across your skin made you feel seen—like the night itself knew what was happening inside this car. Hiromi’s voice broke the silence, low and smooth, sliding right down your spine. “When we get home…” You turned your head slightly, your breath catching. “I’m going to take off that little dress,” he said, fingers tightening just slightly, “real slow. Pull it over your head while you stand at the foot of our bed, hands behind your back, looking at me like that.” You swallowed hard. “Like what?” He didn’t answer right away. Just glanced at you, his lips curving. “Like you’re already aching for me.” Your thighs squeezed together instinctively.

“I’m going to make you lay down,” he continued, his voice a murmur, “and I’m going to kiss every part of you I didn’t get to kiss this morning. Every soft inch. Starting with your throat. Then down.” His thumb brushed up your inner thigh, just beneath the hem. “And when you’re begging—when you’re dripping for it—I’m going to slide my fingers inside you while I tell you all the filthy things I want to do to your mouth.” Your head hit the headrest, lips parting, breath fogging faintly against the window. “And you’ll take it,” he whispered. “All of it. Like the good girl you are when no one’s watching. You’ll come on my fingers, shaking, crying, making those sweet little sounds I live for. Then I’ll flip you over, face-down, and fuck you slow—until you forget anyone’s ever touched you but me.” The car turned onto your street, your heart was racing, you barely heard the tires on the gravel, barely felt the car roll to a stop in the driveway.

All you could feel was his hand.

Still on your thigh.

Still promising.

You turned to him, cheeks flushed, breath shallow. “You’re not fair.” Hiromi smirked, voice molten. “Baby… I’m not even trying yet.” And then— He cut the engine, opened his door, walked around slowly, like he had all night, and opened yours. The porch light flickered on, but nothing in you felt lit from outside— you were burning from within.

The door shut behind you with a soft click, and your back hit it before you even had time to exhale. Hiromi was on you instantly—his mouth hot on your jaw, his hands sliding up your sides, fingertips pressing just beneath your ribs like he already knew where the softest parts of you hid. “Upstairs,” he murmured, voice thick, one hand already trailing down the small of your back to squeeze your ass through your dress. “Now.” You let him lead you by the wrist, your heart thudding against your ribs, the hem of your sundress brushing your thighs like a tease. By the time you reached the bedroom, you weren’t just flushed—you were burning. Hiromi turned to face you, his eyes dark, mouth parted, chest rising with restraint. He stepped closer and lifted the hem of your dress in both hands, dragging it slowly over your hips, past your waist, until it fluttered to the floor in a whisper, his hands paused at your waist.

No bra. Just the soft swell of your breasts, nipples already pebbled. His gaze dropped, reverent.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at you.” You reached for him, but he caught your hands in his, gently guiding them behind your back. “Don’t,” he said softly. “Not yet.” You stilled, heart stuttering. “I want you above me.” Your breath hitched. “W-what?” Hiromi stepped closer, his lips brushing your cheek, then your ear. “I want you to sit on my face.” Your legs nearly gave out. “I want you dripping on me,” he whispered, voice all silk and heat. “I want to hold your thighs open and feel you ride my tongue until you’re shaking.” He kissed down your throat, your collarbone, his hands already roaming—firm, sure, familiar. “You’ve been so good for everyone,” he murmured, sinking to his knees. “The perfect mother. The perfect partner. Now you get to be selfish. Just for a little while.” His hands slid up the backs of your thighs, over the swell of your ass, curling around until he could hook his thumbs into the waistband of your panties. “Take them off,” he whispered.

You obeyed, stepping out of them slowly, the air cool against your heat. He pulled you gently to the bed, laid back without a single word, and looked up at you like you were the moon itself. “Come here,” he said, voice husky. “Let me have you.” Your body moved before your mind caught up—knees braced on either side of his head, thighs trembling with anticipation. You hovered for just a moment, one hand on the headboard, the other in his hair. “I—”

“Sit,” he growled. “Now.” And you did. His mouth met you instantly—hot, open, starved. He groaned the moment your cunt pressed to his tongue, hands gripping your thighs like anchors. He devoured you—licking slow and deep, then fast and desperate, alternating like he was memorizing what made you moan and then doing it again just to watch you unravel, you threw your head back, gasping.

“Fuck—Hiromi—”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His mouth was too busy mapping your pleasure, tongue circling your clit before dipping down to thrust inside you, over and over, his nose bumping your mound as he groaned into your heat like a man drinking you. Your hips moved on instinct—grinding down, chasing friction. He let you. He wanted it. He moaned, loud, filthy, dragging you closer, pressing your cunt harder against his face until your thighs were trembling around his ears. “God,” you gasped, “you’re so—fuck—you’re so good—” His fingers dug into your ass, spreading you wider, holding you there, his tongue never slowing. He sucked your clit just right—rhythmic, wet, needy—and the coil inside you snapped with a scream.

You came against his mouth, thighs clenching, nails raking through his hair as your whole body shook above him. He didn’t stop. Licked through your orgasm like he needed it more than air. Only when your hips started to pull away from overstimulation did he slow, then ease back, mouth slick, eyes wild. “Fuck,” he rasped. “You taste like heaven.” You collapsed beside him, panting, your pulse loud in your ears. Hiromi leaned over you, his lips swollen, cheeks flushed, voice trembling with restraint. “We’re not done,” he whispered. “I want to fuck you now. Slowly. Deep. Until you say my name like it’s the only word you remember.” You reached up, pulled him to your lips, and tasted yourself on his tongue and this time—

You were the one begging.

Hiromi hovered above you, bare and golden in the low light, his skin flushed, his breath soft and reverent. His hand was gentle as it trailed down your side, mapping your body like a secret he already knew but needed to relearn—just to worship it fully, just to honor the parts of you that had changed since becoming a mother. The softness of your belly, the strength in your hips, the weight in your breasts. He didn’t rush. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, kissing down the curve of your collarbone. “Every time I see you like this, I forget how to think.” You cupped his jaw, pulling him back up to kiss him—deep, slow, breath stealing. He pressed into it, shifting his weight between your thighs, your legs falling open naturally to welcome him in. His cock, hard and hot, brushed against your folds, and you shivered from just the threat of it. “I want you,” you breathed, Hiromi’s voice was low, frayed. “You have me.” He reached down, sliding the tip through your slick folds, teasing, parting you just enough to make your breath catch.

“Slow,” he murmured. “We’re not rushing this.” When he pushed inside, it was with deliberate care—inch by inch, thick and unrelenting, the stretch slow and perfect. You gasped softly, nails curling into his biceps as your walls adjusted around him. He stilled once fully inside you, just resting in that heat, both of you breathless. “God,” he rasped, forehead against yours, “you feel like you were made for me.” You whimpered, your hips twitching up. “Move.”

“I will,” he promised, brushing his lips over your cheek. “But not until I memorize this first.” He pulled back, just slightly, then rolled his hips forward—deep and slow. Over and over, unhurried, every thrust angled to drag against that perfect, aching spot inside you. Your back arched, breath catching with every stroke. His hand slipped beneath your thigh, lifting your leg over his hip, opening you wider. His other hand slid under your shoulder, cradling your back like he needed to hold all of you while he made love to you. “You take me so well,” he whispered, kissing your temple, your jaw. “So tight. So warm. You were made to be touched like this.” Your body responded instinctively—hips rising to meet his, moans slipping from your lips in broken rhythm. “Hiromi,” you gasped, eyes fluttering, “don’t stop.”

“Not planning on it,” he groaned, grinding deeper, slower. “I want to watch you come apart.” He kissed down your throat, teeth scraping lightly before his tongue soothed the sting, and you clung to him, legs trembling around his waist. He was so deep, so present, every part of him inside you—his voice, his body, his heart. He shifted slightly, one arm locking beneath you to pull you tighter against him as he rolled you both—his body sliding underneath yours, his cock still buried inside you. “Ride me,” he said, voice raw. “Let me see you lose it.” You pushed up, thighs straddling his waist, your palms flat against his chest. He stared up at you like you were the moon, the stars, the whole damn sky. His hands gripped your hips, guiding you slowly as you began to roll—slow, deep circles, dragging yourself up his length and sinking again with a broken moan.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Just like that.” Your hands slid down to his stomach, steadying yourself as you rocked, his cock pressing deep, his eyes glued to the way your breasts bounced, the way your mouth dropped open when you circled your hips just right. “You’re so fucking sexy,” he breathed. “Look at you—look at you.” He sat up suddenly, arm curled around your waist, your chest pressed flush against his as he rocked into you from below, thrusting up now, slow and hungry. “I want to feel you fall apart on me again,” he said, his voice right at your ear. “Come for me, baby. Right here. In my lap.” You cried out, clinging to him, your orgasm hitting like a wave—your whole body shuddering, your head buried in his neck, your moans muffled against his skin. Hiromi groaned deep in his chest, one hand fisting in your hair, the other gripping your hip so tightly you knew it’d bruise. He thrust up one more time—hard, deep, and then came with a hoarse gasp, his cock pulsing inside you as he held you tight and rode it out, every muscle straining as he buried himself in your heat.

The world stilled.

Your breaths tangled. Your bodies trembled.

He laid you back gently, still kissing your cheek, your jaw, your chest, as he slipped out of you, careful, reverent. ��I love you,” he whispered into your skin. “God, I love you.” You turned your head, tears stinging behind your eyes, heart full. “I love you too.” Hiromi smiled, kissing your lips, then stood, padding to the bathroom. You heard the water run, then felt the warm cloth as he cleaned you up with soft touches and a tenderness that made your throat ache. When he joined you again in bed, he pulled the blanket over your bodies, one arm cradling your waist, the other resting on your belly. His fingers traced lazy circles there, just beneath your navel, while your legs tangled together under the sheets. “You okay?” he asked, voice rough with afterglow, you nodded, nuzzling into his chest. “Better than okay.”

“Good.” He kissed your forehead. “I’ll keep making you feel this way, every chance I get.” And he would, not because you asked, but because he wanted to, because you were his love, his home, his heart in skin and softness and fire, because you deserved to be undone… and rebuilt again in hands that knew exactly how to hold you.

The morning light was golden and heavy, pouring in through the gauzy curtains, dust dancing in lazy spirals. The house was still, silent in that rare, perfect way it only was when both children were elsewhere and the world hadn't quite stirred. You were asleep on your side, the sheets tangled around your hips, your arm curled beneath the pillow. Skin bare. Muscles loose. The remnants of the night before still clinging faintly to your skin like perfume and memory and Hiromi was already awake. His hand rested low on your waist, fingers tracing slow, aimless patterns. He was hard—had been since you shifted in your sleep, pressing your ass back against his pelvis, making him bite back a groan.

But he didn’t rush.

He just watched you, lips ghosting over your shoulder, your spine, the slope of your neck. He murmured your name once—softly, like a prayer—but you only sighed and shifted slightly, your thighs parting just the smallest bit beneath the sheets. That was all the invitation he needed. He slid his hand down, knuckles grazing your inner thigh, and gently slipped his fingers between your folds—finding you already wet, warm, open for him. He groaned, barely audible. “Fuck,” he whispered, voice still hoarse with sleep. “Still so ready for me.” Your breath hitched. Not quite awake, but not asleep either. You arched into his touch instinctively, a low moan tumbling from your lips. “Hiromi…” He kissed the shell of your ear, his voice dragging low across your skin. “Shh, baby. Let me wake you up right.” His fingers dipped in slowly, two sliding deep with practiced ease, and your body welcomed him without hesitation, walls fluttering around the stretch, you gasped softly, your hips rolling backward into him.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “God, you’re soaked already.” He began to move them—slow, deep strokes, curling just right as his lips moved down your neck, sucking gently at the spot just below your jaw. His other hand braced under your thigh, lifting it slightly to spread you open, to give him better access. “Felt you all night,” he whispered. “Dreamed about this.” You whimpered, still half-dreaming yourself, your body melting into his rhythm. His thumb brushed your clit once—just enough to make your hips jerk, your breath catch. “Need more?” he asked against your cheek. “Want me to fuck you before he gets here?” You nodded, desperate now, eyes fluttering open to meet his—dark and full of heat. “Please…”

He kissed you then—slow and deep, his fingers still working you open until you were trembling. He pulled back, licking his lips, watching the way your body moved against his hand. “Get on your back for me.” You obeyed instantly, rolling beneath him, legs falling open as the cool morning air kissed your damp thighs. Hiromi crawled between them, looking down at you like he needed you—right now, again, forever. He leaned in to kiss you again, then reached down to line himself up, the tip of his cock nudging your entrance. “You’re so wet,” he whispered, slipping in slowly, inch by inch. “So fucking ready. Like your body already knows who it belongs to.” You moaned, eyes rolling back as he pushed all the way in, stretching you in that sweet, aching way that only he could—slow, deep, consuming.

He rocked into you, slow and steady, the kind of rhythm made for morning light and tender moans. His hand cradled your jaw, his thumb brushing your lower lip, his eyes never leaving yours. “I love you,” he breathed. “Gonna keep loving you like this—every morning, every night. No matter how tired, how busy, how messy. You’re mine.” Your legs curled around his waist, pulling him deeper, your body trembling as he fucked you through the remnants of sleep and into something holy. His name spilled from your lips again and again, and he took it like a promise, like a vow, like a thread stitched straight through his chest. You came for him like that—quietly, beautifully, held in his hands, his arms, his rhythm and when he followed, hips stuttering, forehead pressed to yours as he whispered your name like a secret, you felt it in your soul.

Not just sex. Not just morning heat.

But something deeper. Something steady. Something that stayed.

The house was still quiet when he pulled out gently, kissing your thigh before disappearing for a warm cloth. You laid there, catching your breath, legs still parted, body humming. When he returned, he cleaned you up again, just like he always did. Then he slipped back into bed beside you, arm wrapping tight around your waist, your head tucked beneath his chin.

Hiromi should’ve let you rest, he knew that. But the way you looked in the morning light, flushed and glowing from the orgasm he’d just coaxed out of you—eyes still heavy-lidded, lips parted, legs open and damp with him—it broke his self-control. He kissed you slow at first, hand trailing over your ribs, mouth dipping to your collarbone. You sighed into him, still dazed, fingers sliding into his hair to pull him closer. He groaned into your skin, teeth grazing your throat, and then you were kissing him back—messy, deep, his tongue tangled with yours as your hips arched again, greedy for more. You reached between you, brushing against his cock, already hard again. “You’re insatiable,” you breathed against his mouth, laughing softly. “So are you,” he muttered, gasping when your hand wrapped around him. “Fuck—baby, you can’t do that unless you’re ready for another round.”

“Who says I’m not?” you whispered, teasing your thumb over the head, already slick from the precum leaking freely. He cursed, biting your lower lip, then groaned when you started stroking him in earnest—slow and tight, just the way he liked it. His hips flexed into your palm, one hand bracing beside your head, the other sliding between your legs again. His fingers found your slick folds, slipping inside with ease, still wet from before. “You’re soaked again,” he growled, pumping his fingers, watching the way your body arched. “You’re gonna kill me.” You moaned, stroking him faster, your wrist twisting just a little as you leaned up to kiss him, breath tangled. “Then die knowing you made me feel like this.”

“Fuck—don’t say that,” he groaned, rutting into your hand. “You’re gonna make me—” You stroked him faster. “Come for me, Hiromi.” That did it.

He groaned low in his throat, eyes fluttering shut as he spilled into your hand, his whole body shuddering, thrusts stuttering even as his fingers kept moving inside you. You cried out, hips grinding into his palm, needing more—the kind of more only he knew how to give and he did. “Come on, baby,” he whispered, his voice wrecked. “Let go for me.” He curled his fingers just right, his thumb finding your clit with perfect pressure, and you shattered again—hips jerking, thighs clenching around his wrist as you moaned his name like something holy. He worked you through it, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your lips as you trembled beneath him. You were still panting, your limbs loose and boneless across the sheets when—

Knock knock knock.

You both froze, Hiromi’s eyes widened. “Shit.” You blinked, still catching your breath. “Who the hell—?” Another knock—quieter this time. Hiromi was already moving—pulling on a pair of black sweats, no time for boxers, no shirt in sight, his chest still flushed, his hair a little wild. He grabbed a clean towel from the dresser and wiped his hand quickly, then ran it through his hair like it would somehow make him look less freshly wrecked.

“Stay here,” he whispered, still breathless. “I’ll get it.” You flopped back onto the bed, still spread out, limbs trembling, cheeks burning. The knock came once more, followed by the faintest coo— and realization hit. “Oh my god,” you whispered into the pillow. “It’s Suguru.” Hiromi paused in the hallway, eyes going wide. “Shit.” He turned the knob slowly, schooling his face into something casual before pulling the door open. Suguru stood there, hair tied back loosely, a large canvas bag over his shoulder, and Sosuke—happy, well-fed, freshly changed—nestled in his arms.

Suguru blinked. Took one look at Hiromi: shirtless, flushed, clearly out of breath. His brows lifted slowly. “...Morning,” Suguru said, voice flat with suspicion. “Morning,” Hiromi replied, too fast, voice too high. They stared at each other for a beat. Sosuke let out a soft gurgle between them. Then Hiromi cleared his throat. “Sorry—I was, uh. Fixing something.” Suguru glanced down at the floor. “Without a shirt?” Hiromi scratched his head. “It… gets hot.” Another pause, Suguru’s mouth twitched. “Uh-huh.”

“Thanks for bringing him,” Hiromi said quickly, stepping back and motioning toward the hallway. “You want to come in?” Suguru shook his head. “I was just dropping him off. Thought I’d tell her something in person—something cute he did yesterday. No big deal.” Hiromi nodded, still blocking the hallway. “She’s still sleeping.” Suguru raised a brow. “Right.”

“We were out late with Kaito gone,” Hiromi added, forcing a small smile. “You know how it is.” Suguru glanced once more at his disheveled hair, at the faint marks on his chest—then down at Sosuke, now chewing on a toy ring with zero interest in the tension above him. “I’ll just text her,” Suguru said finally, eyes narrowed slightly. “She’ll call me when she’s up.”

“Appreciate it,” Hiromi said, gently reaching for Sosuke. Suguru passed him over without a word, watching the way Hiromi adjusted the baby with ease, like he’d done it a hundred times. Like it was second nature. “Have a good morning,” Suguru muttered, adjusting the strap of the empty diaper bag as he turned away. “You too,” Hiromi called after him, already bouncing Sosuke gently, heart pounding in his chest.

He closed the door.

Leaned against it.

Exhaled hard.

“Did he know?” you called faintly from the bedroom, your voice sleepy, breathless, still tangled in afterglow. Hiromi looked down at the baby blinking up at him and said, deadpan, “Oh, he definitely knows.” You giggled in the sheets, flushed from head to toe. “Think he’s mad?” Hiromi padded back toward the bedroom, cradling Sosuke to his bare chest. “Nah,” he said with a grin. “But I am.” You raised a brow as he climbed back into bed, laying the baby between you. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t get to taste you again before he showed up.” You bit your lip, eyes widening, Hiromi smirked, brushing a thumb across your cheek as Sosuke let out a sleepy coo. “Good thing,” he whispered, kissing you soft and slow, “we’ve got the whole day.”

taglist ; @stargirl-mayaa @shibataimu @anakinishotdoe @ohhheymessa @shibataimu @hellovanie @inixox0 @casssiesthings

[suku-enthusiasts]

Chapter Four (side story) || Rose Petal Honey Tarts - S. Ryomen

❛ ❜ this chapter ; Aiyumi Ryomen x Megumi Fushiguro (side story) - Aiyumi is 18, Megumi is 19

❝ in the lands of gods and monsters, she was an angel, living with the King of Curses- 

Sukuna Ryomen Itadori was a man of many things, but before he became the cursed monster, he was a kind husband, who was sarcastic, always loving in his words, and loves his wife dearly. After a day of work, he returns home early, to find his wife brutally murdered in the home he built for the two of them. Sukun

a was unaware of the power he held, but when it unleashed, he became something his wife never thought she could imagine. 10 years pass, as Sukuna visits his wife's grave, the same spot he buried her all those years ago, something was different, something touching his face as he awoke, could this be real?❞

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. smut . anxiety. death. graphic scenes

Word count ; 5.2k

main masterlist | series masterlist

The dirt path that led to the Empress's cottage felt sacred somehow. Overgrown with moss and lined with golden wildflowers, it looked like something out of a storybook—a story he had been part of for as long as he could remember.

Megumi clutched a soft paper-wrapped box to his chest—rose-petal tarts filled with honey cream—and in his other hand, a bunch of plum blossoms. They still held dew, their scent delicate and shy, much like the girl he brought them for. His girl. At least, he hoped. Each step closer to the gate made his heart thrum faster, not with fear—but reverence. This wasn’t just a visit. Not anymore.

He used to time his visits for when Lord Sukuna was away. Easier that way. Less risk of being glared into another dimension. But lately… he had begun showing up even when the Emperor was home. Today was one of those days.

Sukuna was standing on the porch, like a carved statue of wrath. His four glowing eyes tracked Megumi’s every move, arms folded tightly across his massive chest. His presence was like thunderclouds—silent, but heavy with the promise of a storm. Megumi bowed low at the gate. “Good evening, my Lord.” The Emperor tilted his head slightly, his gaze dropping to the plum blossoms. “Plum again?” he asked with a bored growl.

Megumi straightened, steeling himself. “They’re her favorite.” A pause. “Hmph.” Sukuna grunted, stepping aside. “She’s in the garden.” Megumi exhaled as he passed. That was as close to a blessing as he was going to get.

Aiyumi knelt by her flower beds, dirt under her nails and sun on her cheeks. When she looked up and saw him, her entire face bloomed like the tulips beside her. “Megumi!” she squealed, wiping her hands on her apron and hurrying toward him. She plucked the flowers from his hand, burying her nose in the soft pink petals. “You remembered. Again.” He handed her the box next. “Rose-petal honey tarts. You’re the first to try.” She bit her lip as she opened the box, the scent of sugar and floral warmth wafting out. “You spoil me.”

They sat near the trellis, sunlight casting patterned shadows across their laps. They shared bites of the tart, fingers brushing in quiet moments that neither of them commented on—but both of them felt. She looked at him with laughter dancing in her eyes, the smile she only gave him, and she swore she could feel her papa’s glare from inside the house. But she didn’t look away. The wind tugged gently at the edges of Sukuna’s haori as he stood on the porch, his crimson gaze locked on the boy who dared to linger. “Boy,” he called gruffly. Megumi turned, already knowing what was coming.

Sukuna didn’t move, just leaned against the wooden beam, arms crossed. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you come here?” Sukuna’s voice was low and dangerous. “What do you want with my daughter?”

Megumi straightened. “I love her,” he said, no tremble in his tone. “I’ve always loved her. Since I was a boy.”

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed. “You have the audacity to say that to me?”

“I do.” Megumi didn’t flinch. “Because it’s the truth. And I’d rather say it than pretend. I’ll never hurt her. I just… I want to be by her side. Forever.” Sukuna was silent, his expression unreadable. Then he scoffed, jaw tight. “She’s still a child.” Megumi stepped forward. “No, she isn’t. She’s growing. You know it better than anyone. You raised her to be strong. Independent.” The Emperor didn’t answer. Not at first. Then finally: “We’ll see.”

The sun was just beginning to set, casting long golden streaks through the windows of your cottage as you stood by the kitchen counter, slicing apples for Aiyumi’s favorite tea. The quiet hum of the house, once peaceful, now buzzed faintly with tension. You could feel it the moment Sukuna stepped inside. His footsteps were heavy — slower than usual. You glanced over your shoulder and saw him lingering in the doorway, his arms crossed over his broad chest, expression unreadable. The air clung with the weight of whatever was left unsaid.

You didn’t ask what happened right away. Instead, you slid the tray of apple slices aside, wiped your hands on a soft cloth, and turned to face him fully. “Did you speak with him?” you asked gently. Sukuna’s jaw ticked, and he gave a short, stiff nod. “He said he loves her.” You waited for more — a grumble, a scoff, a sarcastic remark. But it didn’t come. Just that quiet statement, spoken with the same weight he gave to matters of war or power. You stepped closer.

“And what did you say?”

“I told him I’ve seen men die for less than thinking about touching what belongs to me,” Sukuna muttered. “And then I listened.” His eyes dropped to the floor for a second before they met yours again, blazing red but softened around the edges. “He was serious. Not a boy’s love. Something deeper. Something dangerous.” You stepped into his space now, slipping your arms around his middle — or trying to. It was always a bit of a stretch to wrap your arms around him, his hands instinctively settled on your hips. “She’s not our baby anymore,” you whispered, resting your cheek on his chest. “She’s becoming a woman. You knew this day would come.”

“I knew it,” Sukuna said darkly, “but I don’t have to like it.” You smiled into his robes. “No, you don’t. But she’s smart, Suku. She’s strong. And if there’s any boy I would ever trust her with… it would be Megumi.” He sighed, and you felt the rumble in his chest. “I’ve known that boy since he was in diapers. I’ve tossed him in the air like a sack of rice and threatened to string him up for stealing sweets from the kitchen.” You laughed, pulling back to look up at him. “And now he’s tall, and he brings our daughter moon-shaped pastries and fresh-cut lilies.”

“She hides the letters he writes her,” Sukuna grunted. You blinked. “You read them?”

“I smelled them. She tucks them under her pillows.”

“Oh Sukuna,” you chuckled, reaching up to smooth his hair back. “You’re insufferable. But I love you.”

He bent down slowly, resting his forehead against yours, his lower arms winding behind your back while his top pair cupped your cheeks. “I would burn every corner of this earth to protect her.”

“I know,” you whispered, brushing your nose against his. “But loving someone means letting them choose, too.” After a pause, his voice dropped to a whisper. “He told me he’s never looked at another girl. Not once.”

“And you believe him?”

“I do. That’s what scares me.” You stood in that silence for a while — the kind that wasn’t heavy, just full of years, memories, and a shared ache of watching a child grow up. Then you pulled him toward the table and sat him down, sliding a small plate of apples in front of him.

“Come on, Emperor. Eat something before your heart gives out.” He scowled, but popped an apple slice into his mouth. “I’m still going to glare at him every time he visits.” You smiled and kissed his temple. “As you should. It’s your divine right.” And for a little while, everything was quiet again.

The market glowed under a ceiling of hanging lanterns, music echoing through the stone alleys, laughter thick in the air. Aiyumi spun in a soft lavender gown, her braid tied with gold thread, her cheeks flushed with excitement. Her hand reached for Megumi’s as they ducked past a noodle stall, laughing breathlessly.

They danced with strangers, swept up in the joy of it all—his hand on her waist, hers on his shoulder. He spun her and caught her against his chest, and their foreheads touched. Her breath mingled with his. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered. She giggled. “Don’t tell Papa I said you could say that.” 

The crowd had started to thin, and the music had softened to a distant lull, like a heartbeat fading into the hush of evening. Aiyumi and Megumi had wandered away from the bustle, hand in hand, weaving through the trees until they reached a quiet slope overlooking the water. The moon shimmered across the lake, pale and round like a polished pearl. Fireflies blinked softly in the tall grass, and the air smelled of jasmine and wood smoke.

Aiyumi laughed as she twirled once more in her soft dress, the ribbons in her hair catching the breeze. “We always end up out here,” she whispered, catching a firefly gently between her fingers. Megumi watched her. His heart had been thudding all night—ever since he saw her in the lantern light, glowing like something from a dream. And now she was here, just the two of them, and he couldn’t stop staring.

“You always smile when we’re out here,” he said quietly. She turned, releasing the firefly into the night air. “Because I feel free here.” He stepped closer. “You’re always free with me, Yumi.” Her lips curved softly. “I know.” For a moment, the only sound was the breeze through the trees and the soft chirp of crickets. She tilted her head, blinking up at him with those wide, thoughtful eyes. His hand brushed hers, then trailed up to her cheek.

“Megumi…”

He kissed her. Gently. Carefully. Like he’d been waiting his whole life to do it. It was warm and soft and trembling. Her lips parted in surprise at first—but then her hands slid up to his chest, and she melted into him like she belonged there. The kiss deepened, and when they parted, her breath was shaky. His forehead pressed to hers, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I love you,” he breathed. “I’ve loved you since we were kids. Since you used to follow me around the garden and tug on my sleeve… since the day you cried when I skinned my knee and kissed it better.” Aiyumi’s eyes filled with tears, her fingers trembling against his chest. “I didn’t know when it happened,” he continued, “but one day I woke up and realized I could never picture my life without you in it. I want to be beside you, always. Through everything. I want to marry you, Yumi.” She laughed, the tears slipping down her cheeks as she nodded and leaned into him. “I love you too,” she whispered. “I’ve always loved you.”

Megumi kissed her again, deeper this time, his hands cradling her waist. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held him like a promise. And for a little while, there was no emperor, no rules, no worry about the storm that would come once Sukuna found out. It was just them—two souls who had always belonged to one another, lit by fireflies and love under the velvet sky.

The evening air had cooled, but the courtyard burned with tension. Sukuna stood in the center of the stone path, arms crossed, every muscle in his hulking form coiled with restraint. His four crimson eyes were unreadable, but the raw energy that pulsed from his body was anything but calm. Uraume lingered just behind him, stiff as marble, their gaze flicking between Sukuna and the pair of trembling teenagers before them.

Choso, ever the peacekeeper, sipped his tea from the shaded patio nearby, pretending not to eavesdrop, but his foot tapped anxiously beneath the low table. Toji and his wife had arrived first. They stood on the wide steps that led into the main house—arms crossed, postures rigid, yet their expressions were more disappointment than anger.

Megumi and Aiyumi knelt together in front of them all, their heads lowered respectfully, their hands resting on their thighs. The faint chirping of cicadas buzzed in the background, but even the night seemed to hold its breath.

“What in the seven hells possessed you to sneak out like that?” Toji’s wife snapped first, her voice low and scolding, like thunder rumbling before a storm. “Do you even think about the danger?” Toji added, his voice quieter but more intense. “There are people—men—who would use your love for one another as a weapon. You think a night of dancing is worth your safety?”

“We didn’t do anything wrong!” Aiyumi cried out, her voice cracking, her hands balling into fists on her lap. “We just wanted to be together.”

“That’s not the point,” your mother chimed in from behind the others, arms folded across her chest. “It’s not about guilt or innocence. It’s about trust.”

Sukuna hadn’t spoken. Not yet. But you could feel it—his rage was growing heavier by the second. His chest rose and fell with every breath, sharp and uneven, as if he were holding back something monstrous. And then he stepped forward. The ground under his feet seemed to quake with the weight of him. His four eyes locked on Megumi like twin blades.

“You think I’d let my daughter run through the city like a stray?” he growled, voice deep and full of venom. “You think because you’re Toji’s son, you’re owed something?” Megumi raised his head, his voice steady despite his fear. “I never believed I was owed anything.”

“Then why—”

“Because I love her.” Megumi’s voice cut clean through the courtyard, strong and unmoving. “I’ve loved her since we were children.” Aiyumi’s hand found his, fingers weaving together, and she stared at her father with brimming eyes. “I’m tired of being treated like a child, Papa,” she said again, softly this time. “I’m eighteen. I know what I feel. I love Megumi. I’ve always loved him.”

Something cracked in Sukuna’s face. For the smallest of seconds, his mouth parted, as if he wanted to say something—anything. But it was only the barest flicker. Pain passed behind his eyes and was quickly hidden behind his usual snarl. “I’m not a child anymore. And neither is he.”

Then, without another word, she stood up and fled, tears streaking her cheeks. Her footsteps echoed on the stones as she ran inside the house, the door slamming behind her with a final thud.

The courtyard fell into silence. Toji scratched his jaw and muttered, “She’s got your temper.” Sukuna let out a low sigh, dragging a hand down his face. “Gods help me.”

Then, suddenly, Megumi stood. Brushed his knees and bowed low, not as a boy—but as a man.

“Lord Sukuna,” he said, voice shaking only slightly, “I’ve come not just as a guest… but as a man who loves your daughter. I’ve waited. I’ve respected your rules, your home, your watchful eyes. But tonight, I ask you—plainly and honestly—for her hand.” Uraume’s eyes widened slightly. Choso choked on his tea. Toji raised a brow, then glanced at Sukuna, clearly trying not to smirk.

Sukuna narrowed his eyes, stepping closer, towering over Megumi like a shadow made flesh. “And you think you’re ready?” he asked coldly. “To be her husband? To stand at her side when she cries? When she’s sick? When she’s angry and you’re too tired to fight? To carry her burdens and still treat her like gold?” Megumi nodded slowly. “I don’t think I’m perfect. But I know I would never leave her side. I would spend every breath making her feel safe… and adored. And if you let me… I’ll never let her fall.” Sukuna was silent.

Then he turned and walked a few paces away, as if the fire in his chest needed distance to burn. Toji walked to his son and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve got guts,” he whispered. Sukuna finally turned back. “We’ll see,” he said, low and gruff. “But if I ever hear that she’s cried because of you… you’ll wish I ended you tonight.” Megumi bowed again, deeply. “Understood, my Lord.” Choso stood, stretching. “Well… I think that went better than expected,” he muttered.

Toji’s wife chuckled softly. “He didn’t kill him. I’d say it’s a win.” Your mother exhaled and said with a grin, “He’s lucky he’s handsome.” Inside, Aiyumi sat on her bed, staring at the moonlit window. And though she didn’t hear everything, she smiled. Because she knew the man she loved had stood before a god… and didn’t tremble.

Later that night, The house was still. The only sound was the distant chirp of summer cicadas and the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. Aiyumi’s door had been shut for over an hour, the light under the frame long since gone. Uraume & Choso had returned to their cottage. Toji’s family had departed. But Sukuna hadn’t moved.

He stood at the window in your shared room, broad shoulders silhouetted by moonlight. His four eyes blinked slowly, and he stared out at the empty courtyard—where his daughter had once played with her dolls, taken her first steps, chased fireflies with bare feet… and now, where she had stood, declaring her love for a boy.

You stood behind him, brushing your hand against his bare back. “You’ve been quiet.”

“She’s just a girl,” he muttered.

“She’s a woman,” you said softly. Sukuna growled low in his chest, the kind of sound he made when he was uncertain. “I know. I just… I didn’t expect it to happen so soon.” You wrapped your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against the scarred skin of his spine. “She still needs us. But not in the way she did when she was little. She needs us to let her stand, Sukuna. Even if it’s hard.”

He didn’t answer right away. You could feel his heart beating beneath his ribs. Steady. Heavy. The heartbeat of a god trying to be a father. “She was always mine,” he said finally. “The first time I saw her… tiny, crying, warm in my arms. She was mine. She still feels like… like my whole world.”

“She still is,” you whispered. “But she’s found someone who wants to help carry her world with her.” He sighed and leaned back into your touch, lifting one of his lower arms to hold your hands at his stomach. “If he ever hurts her…”

“He won’t,” you said gently. “And if he does, he knows exactly what kind of father she has.” Sukuna chuckled, low and bitter. “That he does.” You stood in silence for a moment longer before Sukuna pulled away from the window and turned to you fully. His face—normally harsh, sharp, terrifying to most—softened in the glow of the lantern. “I’ll talk to her,” he said. You kissed his cheek. “Be gentle.”

The soft knock startled her. “Come in,” Aiyumi called, expecting you. But when the door creaked open, it was him. Sukuna ducked through the doorway. He always looked too large in these cozy rooms—the king of curses, the emperor, with too many arms and too many eyes. But to her, he was still Papa. She sat up quickly, wiping her cheeks. “I’m sorry I yelled.” He raised a hand. “I’m not here to argue.” She looked at him cautiously. “Then… why?”

He approached the edge of her bed and sat down beside her, the mattress dipping under his weight. For a while, he said nothing. His gaze rested on the ribbon she’d tied around her lamp, the flowers Megumi had left on her nightstand. Then he spoke.

“I saw you take your first steps,” he said. “You were nine months old and already furious when you couldn’t reach your bottle on your own.” Aiyumi blinked. “I was there when you got your first fever. When you lost your first tooth. When you cried because your cat Ryo brought you a dead lizard.” She giggled quietly. “I remember that.”

“I buried the lizard,” Sukuna added with a grunt. “Gave it a full ceremony in the garden.” She laughed again, teary-eyed. “You will always be my little girl, Yumi,” he said softly. “But I see you now. Grown. Capable. Brave.” He paused, then let out a slow breath. “I can’t stop you from loving him. And I won’t.” Her eyes widened. “You won’t?”

“No,” he said. “But listen to me carefully, daughter of mine.” She nodded.

“You may court. You may spend time together—with my and his parents’ knowledge and blessing. But marriage…” He leveled her with all four eyes, his voice deepening, “...will only be allowed once Megumi has completed every trial set before him. Training as a knight, learning as a prince, and proving himself as a future king. If he wants to take my daughter as his queen, he must understand what it means to bear the weight of your love.” Aiyumi swallowed. Her voice cracked. “He will. He already does.”

“I believe that,” Sukuna said, standing. “But I need you both to earn it.” She reached out, grabbing one of his hands. “Thank you, Papa.” He looked down at her, rubbing her knuckles with his thumb. Then, for the first time in a long time, Sukuna bent down… and kissed his daughter on the crown of her head. “Get some sleep,” he said, voice gruff but full of love. “You’ve got a big life ahead of you.”

The morning mist had barely lifted when Sukuna stood in the courtyard of the estate, arms folded, watching the golden horizon burn away the chill of dawn. Beside him, Aiyumi stood tall—even though the sleep still clung to her lashes. Her hair was tied up, cheeks still pink from the early breeze, and she clutched a small satchel packed by her mother.

“You’ll begin your lessons today,” Sukuna said, his tone even, but the warmth in his eyes betrayed him. Aiyumi nodded, holding his gaze. “Will I be learning how to yell like you too?” He narrowed his eyes, but his smirk crept through. “If you're lucky.” The estate bustled with quiet activity as high servants and court ladies awaited her inside the grand halls. These were women who once served royals, who now devoted their loyalty to the Emperor. They bowed respectfully to her, some hiding smiles—they had seen her toddle through the halls as a baby. Now she stood before them, a young woman with her father’s spirit and her mother’s grace.

The first lessons were delicate and disciplined—how to walk with balance and poise, how to read old imperial texts and scripts, the history of court and state. She learned etiquette at formal dinners, how to listen, when to speak, and what silence could do in the right moment. Her instructors marveled at her blend of elegance and mischief, her gentle charm coupled with unyielding wit. But it was Toji’s wife who trained her in strength.

The tall, dignified woman stood with Aiyumi in a sun-soaked training hall, a short wooden staff in one hand and an arched brow lifted in challenge. “Being queen doesn’t mean being docile. Your papa would murder a thousand men before letting them near you… but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t know how to break a few bones yourself.” Aiyumi laughed, gripping her staff tightly. “Let’s begin with balance and pressure points.”

Meanwhile, outside, Megumi was drenched in sweat, a training sword in hand as Toji corrected his stance with brutal precision. “Your wrist is weak. Fix it, or she’ll snap you like a twig.” Sukuna stood just behind Toji, watching silently. Megumi gritted his teeth. “Yes, sir.” Toji’s chuckle was sharp. “He doesn’t say that when I talk. You’ve got him shaking, Sukuna.”

“I should,” Sukuna replied dryly. “He wants my daughter.”

“And he’s showing up every day to earn her. Give him credit. You didn’t even know how to tie your kimono at that age.” Sukuna grunted, but didn’t deny it. After drills, Sukuna sat with Megumi beneath the shade of the estate’s inner garden. The younger man gulped water while the Emperor watched him with quiet intensity.

“She’s trusting,” Sukuna said. “Loyal. But she has a fire that you’ll never put out. Don’t try.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Megumi said. “I love all of her.” Sukuna turned his gaze forward. “Then love all of her by preparing. Not just for her, but for the world that will one day look to you both. This path isn’t just about marriage—it’s about responsibility.”

Inside, Aiyumi sat with one of the seamstresses, helping stitch a ceremonial cloth. She pricked her finger and hissed—but only smiled at the tiny drop of blood. “It’ll be worth it,” she whispered to herself. From across the hall, Sukuna looked in and saw her laughing with the court women, glowing in the light of maturity. He said nothing—but his chest swelled with pride, with love, and with something terrifying and beautiful… He was beginning to see his daughter not just as his little girl—but as a queen in the making.

The late afternoon sun poured gently through the kitchen windows, golden light settling on the wooden floorboards. You stirred the simmering soup on the stove while Choso and Uraume sat nearby at the table, sipping herbal tea and watching little birds flutter just outside the window. The cottage smelled of stewed vegetables, fresh herbs, and the faint trace of ink from an open book lying beside a plate of sliced fruit.

Your 15-year-old son, Itsuki, lounged on the couch near the hearth, long legs stretched out, a history scroll open across his lap—but barely read. “Megumi this, Megumi that,” Itsuki groaned. “All I hear about is Megumi and Aiyumi. I swear she talks about him more than she breathes.” You smiled to yourself, trying not to laugh.

“Let the girl be in love,” Choso teased, kicking back in his seat. “You’ll fall hard one day too, brat.”

“I will not!” Itsuki wrinkled his nose. “Disgusting.” Uraume chuckled softly, their white brows lifting. “He has your dramatic flair, you know,” they said to you.

Just then, your almost 80 year old mother came in from the garden, wiping her hands on her apron. She set a basket of herbs down and glanced around the kitchen, catching wind of the conversation. “I told you, didn’t I?” she said with a huff of laughter. “That little girl is you all over again. Always hanging off Sukuna’s heels like a shadow. And that husband of yours? He was worse—he’d follow you around like a puppy with a temper.”

You turned from the stove, grinning as you poured broth into bowls. “And now it’s Aiyumi and Megumi doing the same dance.” Itsuki groaned again, dragging the scroll over his face. “Can I just be adopted?”

“Too late,” Choso said, taking a bite of fruit. “You look just like your old man—especially when you scowl.” Uraume leaned their cheek into their palm. “He’ll be trouble one day. You can see it already.”

“I’m not trouble!” Itsuki sat up, indignant. “I’m smart. I train. I don’t run around kissing girls under moonlight!”

The whole kitchen burst into soft laughter. You set the bowls down on the table and kissed the top of your son’s head as you passed. “One day, you’ll find someone who makes you want to sneak off under the stars too.” He blinked. “Gross.”

“You say that now,” your mother mused, pouring herself some tea. “But I’ve seen this before. History repeats itself, especially in this family.” You sat with your family, a warm smile curving your lips as the room filled with light chatter, teasing, and the bubbling sounds of dinner. It was peaceful. It was home.

And just outside the window, in the far distance, the silhouette of the estate stood strong beneath the pink-orange sky—where your daughter was learning how to be a queen, and your husband was guiding a future king.

Everything, you realized, was unfolding exactly as it should.

The midday sun was soft and golden, slanting gently through the leaves of the tall trees surrounding the cottage. A breeze carried the scent of blooming lilies and the distant hum of cicadas, signaling a rare day of peace.

It was a day off — no training, no court etiquette, no lessons in diplomacy or lineage. Just sky, summer, and each other.

Megumi walked the path toward the cottage, a box of candied citrus fruits tucked under one arm. His navy blue yukata was loosely tied, and strands of his hair shifted in the wind as he spotted her through the kitchen window — Aiyumi, standing beside her mother, slicing apples with a soft hum on her lips.

He watched her smile as she listened to something the Empress said, her cheeks pink and glowing from the kitchen warmth. His heart beat unevenly in his chest. You noticed him first and smiled, your voice lifting through the window. “Megumi! Perfect timing. We just finished the stew.” He gave a polite bow as he entered, offering the sweet treats in his hands. “I thought these might go well with dessert.”

Aiyumi’s eyes lit up. “These are my favorite,” she said softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as she took the box. “Thank you, Gumi.” His cheeks flushed faintly. “Anything for you.” You watched them with a knowing smile but didn’t say a word. You busied yourself plating the stew and freshly baked bread while Aiyumi set the small round table near the window. Megumi helped her, their fingers brushing briefly over the utensils. They looked at each other — and didn’t speak, just smiled.

They sat across from each other, knees nearly touching beneath the table. Megumi ate slowly, savoring each bite as if it tasted better just because she made it. Aiyumi giggled once as he smeared a little broth across his cheek and quickly dabbed it away with a napkin, murmuring, “You eat like a prince raised by wolves.”

“And you cook like a goddess pretending to be mortal,” he replied, eyes twinkling.

After lunch, you excused yourself to prepare the pie. “Go on,” you said to your daughter, handing her the wrapped tart and a blanket. “Sit outside and enjoy the weather.” They did just that.

The blanket was laid out beneath the apricot tree, where the shade danced like water across the grass. Aiyumi placed the pie between them, slicing off two generous pieces. Megumi took a bite and groaned. “This is perfect.”

“Mother’s baking always is.” They ate with bare fingers, laughing when crumbs stuck to their cheeks and flicking them away. Birds chirped above, and the cottage garden buzzed with life. It was warm, and peaceful, and everything felt slower in the best way.

When their plates were clean and their hands idle, Megumi reached forward without thinking, brushing his knuckles lightly over hers. She didn’t pull away — instead, she turned her palm, letting their fingers tangle together naturally. “I missed you yesterday,” he said quietly. “We saw each other at breakfast,” she teased.

“But I didn’t get to see you like this.” His voice was softer now. “Alone. Not as a student or a future heir. Just… you and me.”

Aiyumi looked down at their joined hands, her thumb tracing the back of his. “You’ll always have me, Gumi. No matter the title.” They didn’t kiss — not yet. But the look they shared held every promise of the future. And from the window of the kitchen, you smiled silently to yourself, drying your hands on a towel, your heart full.

Next

authors note ; ahhh I loved writing about Aiyumi & Megumi (more to come) I enjoyed writing this series sm, and I can't believe its almost done :(

[suku-enthusiasts]

fuck what anyone says, im taking a nap... ain't nobody stopping me today

[suku-enthusiasts]

chapter thirteen || thank you - s. geto

suguru geto x f!reader

❝She loved him through the storm—through the silence of hospital halls and the jagged weight of recovery. Suguru had once been her everything, her always. But healing reshaped him, softened his love into something quiet, unpromising. He no longer dreamed of vows. He no longer wished for children. And yet, there she stood—pregnant, unraveling, and alone in the spaces he left behind. Then came Hiromi. Steady. Patient. Unassuming. What began as co-parenting slowly bled into something gentler, something sacred. Through lullabies and court dates, aching laughter and late-night tenderness, a new kind of love was born—not loud or reckless, but steady as the earth. This is a story about losing the future you thought you’d have, and finding grace in the one you never imagined. About loving two men in different lifetimes of your heart—and the quiet, unshakable strength of choosing peace after pain.❞

word count ; 6.4k

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety. death. graphic scenes

series masterlist | next

The days had lengthened, bleeding slowly into warm lavender evenings. Cicadas sang in the trees like tiny orchestras warming up for twilight. The porch creaked under the weight of the sun, the wind danced lazily through open windows, and everything in town moved slower now—softened by summer. Sosuke was a month old and Suguru was back. He’d moved into a modest apartment on the quiet side of the small town, tucked just above the bookstore that had closed two winters ago. The landlord—Mrs. Ito, who remembered him from high school—had left a basket of miso soup packets and towels on his kitchen counter the day he moved in. His space was sparse. Barely furnished. But it was his and he came every day. Always around the same time. Just after four. Still in his dark slacks and rolled-up sleeves from teaching. He now lectured history at the nearby college—the same weary passion in his voice, the same quiet reverence for stories long buried beneath dust and time. But now, his days ended not in silence, but in the tender ritual of coming home—not to his own place, but to the little house on the hill where Sosuke lived.

Your house.

You’d started to expect the sound of his knock. That gentle tap-tap against the screen door. The soft creak as it opened and every time you looked up from your seat on the couch—baby cradled against your chest, hair pulled back in a loose twist—there he was. Suguru. Standing in the golden light of the doorway, his eyes going straight to his son and almost always, he wasn’t the only one there. Hiromi was usually already in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, a soft playlist humming low as he stirred a pot on the stove or plated vegetables in careful rows. Kaito’s laughter would float down the hall, cartoon sound effects bouncing after him. Sometimes he’d be curled on the rug with his toys, creating little voices for each one—other times, he was nestled beside you, whispering to Sosuke like the baby was already his best friend and Suguru… always paused when he arrived. Because each time he walked in, he saw home—not the one he’d once shared with you, but the one that had grown in his absence. Warmer. Brighter. Woven with threads of another man’s steady kindness, and a little boy’s sparkling laughter and yet, you always welcomed him. Not with longing. Not with bitterness. But with quiet grace.

Today, the house was humming with summer’s gentle buzz. The ceiling fan spun lazily above the living room, and Hiromi’s voice floated in from the kitchen, low and warm as he hummed to a song you couldn’t name. You were on the couch, Sosuke resting on your chest, his tiny body rising and falling with each of your breaths. Kaito sat at your feet, dragging a toy train across the coffee table, narrating in dramatic voices. Suguru stepped inside just as the shadows began to stretch long across the wooden floor, you looked up. “Hey,” you said, soft and fond. His eyes went to Sosuke immediately. “How was he today?” You smiled. “Gassy. Grumpy. Perfect.” That earned the tiniest curve of his lips. He slipped off his shoes and moved to sit beside you on the edge of the couch, careful not to jostle the baby. His eyes drank Sosuke in like they always did—as if memorizing something fleeting. Suguru had started bringing a notebook, jotting down milestones. A quiet devotion. A reverence he’d never voiced aloud. “He made a sound this morning that sounded almost like a laugh,” you whispered, brushing a hand over your son’s dark hair. “Startled himself. It was adorable.” Suguru’s voice was a thread. “I wish I’d heard it.”

You looked at him for a moment. “You’re hearing so many things now.” He blinked. His lashes were always heavy. “You think it’s enough?” You shook your head. “I think it’s exactly what it needs to be.” From the kitchen, Hiromi’s voice called out, “Dinner’s almost ready! Kaito, set the table, buddy!” Kaito jumped up immediately. “Yes, Chef!” You laughed, watching him scramble to the kitchen with mismatched socks and a plastic dinosaur clutched in one hand. Hiromi emerged a moment later, wiping his hands on a towel, face flushed from the stove. He looked at you and Suguru, his smile easy. “You want to eat on the porch tonight? It’s nice out.” You glanced at Suguru, who nodded, then to Hiromi. “Yeah. That sounds perfect.”

Later, after the dishes were cleared and Kaito had climbed into your lap for a post-dinner cuddle, you all sat outside beneath the soft amber hue of a sinking sun. The porch was strung with fairy lights—your mother’s idea, installed two weeks after Sosuke was born. Kaito was now sprawled on a blanket beside the rocking chair, constructing an elaborate story with his toys. Hiromi sat at your feet, a hand lazily curled around his glass of iced tea. Suguru leaned against the porch railing, watching the horizon. Sosuke was asleep in your arms, tiny hands curled like sleepy starfish.

You broke the quiet first. “He likes music,” you said, eyes on your son. “Falls asleep faster when it’s something soft.” Hiromi looked up. “I can make you a playlist.” You smiled at him. “I’d like that.” Suguru’s voice came low, behind you. “Do you sing to him?” You nodded. “Sometimes. Mostly when we’re alone. It helps.” Silence again. Not heavy—just full.

After a while, Suguru spoke. “I found a book today. At the campus library. It was about lullabies across different cultures. The ones mothers used to sing during war.” He paused. “Even in the middle of everything, they sang.” You looked over your shoulder, eyes soft. “You should read it to him.”

His brows twitched. “You think he’d understand?” You shook your head. “No. But he’ll remember the way your voice sounds. That’s more important.” The sun dipped lower. Kaito yawned dramatically. Hiromi stood to lift him with ease, carrying the sleepy boy to the couch for cartoons and a quiet wind-down, Suguru stayed. You rocked gently, Sosuke still against your chest. Suguru slowly sat beside you again, not quite touching. His fingers rested against the edge of the rocker. For a long time, neither of you spoke.

Then, very softly, Suguru said, “I envy him.” You looked over. “Who?”

“Hiromi.” He swallowed. “Not because of you, but… because he doesn’t flinch when he holds your son. Because when Sosuke cries, he doesn’t wonder if he’s allowed to pick him up.” Suguru’s voice was raw. “Because Kaito calls this place home, and I still feel like a visitor.” Your heart pulled, gentle and aching. “Then don’t be one.” He looked at you, startled. “You show up,” you said quietly. “You ask questions. You help. You try. That’s not a visitor. That’s a father who’s learning.” Suguru’s lips parted. His eyes shimmered, but no tears fell. “It just doesn’t feel like mine anymore. This life.” You nodded slowly. “Because it isn’t. Not all of it. Some of it… it grew without you. But Sosuke? He’s yours. Every breath. Every yawn. Every time he grabs my hair and yanks like a gremlin. He’s yours, Suguru. But the rest—” You exhaled. “The rest you have to grow into. Like we did.” Suguru didn’t speak for a long while.

But eventually, he reached out—slowly, gently, asking without words—and you placed Sosuke into his arms. The baby stirred, whimpered, then settled. Suguru held him close and this time, he didn’t flinch. He rocked with you in silence. The stars blinked into existence above the porch. From inside, Hiromi’s laugh echoed as Kaito shouted about a cartoon plot twist and in that golden, stretching hour before dusk… There was peace. Not perfection. Not resolution. But a peace born of presence. Of slow forgiveness. Of learning how to build again and as Suguru whispered something in Sosuke’s ear—too quiet for you to hear—you knew, deep in your chest, that this was a new chapter not just for your son.

But for all of you.

A boy born in love. A father reborn in grief. And a mother choosing peace, again and again, like the sun that never fails to rise.

The moon hung high above the hillside, pale and watchful, silvering the trees outside the kitchen windows. The house was quiet now. Kaito had fallen asleep with one sock half-off, his cheek pressed against the throw pillow on the couch. You were in the bedroom, your silhouette faint beneath the hallway light, one arm curled around Sosuke as you dozed. Only two men remained in the kitchen, Suguru stood at the sink, rinsing mugs. The baby-blue one with your name painted in lavender letters. The white one with a crack down the handle—Hiromi’s favorite, though he never said it aloud. Hiromi was at the table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a finger lazily circling the rim of his empty glass.

The air was warm. Still. Suspended like a held breath.

Suguru spoke first. “I thought I hated you.” His voice was quiet, low enough it could’ve disappeared into the hum of the refrigerator, Hiromi looked up. “But I didn’t,” Suguru continued, placing the cup upside down on the drying rack. “I just hated the way she smiled when you walked into a room.” Hiromi didn’t flinch. He didn’t smirk, either. He just studied Suguru with those sharp, knowing eyes. “She was alone,” Hiromi said after a moment, his tone even, but not unkind. “Someone had to help.” Suguru turned slowly, leaning against the sink, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. “And you volunteered?” Hiromi met his gaze. “No. I showed up. There’s a difference.” The silence swelled. Thick. Tense. Not angry—but ancient, in the way only grief and love could be. Like two tectonic plates shifting under the same fault line.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” Suguru said finally, voice tighter now. “I just wanted to say thank you.” Hiromi raised a brow. “For what?”

“For not letting her fall apart.” A flicker passed over Hiromi’s face—something caught between surprise and sorrow. He leaned back in the chair, folding his hands in his lap. “She’s stronger than you think.”

“I know she is,” Suguru said, eyes dark. “But I also know what it looks like when she breaks. I’ve seen it.” Hiromi’s jaw ticked. “So have I.” They stared at each other for a long time—neither willing to look away first and then, very slowly, Hiromi leaned forward, forearms resting on the table like he was bracing for something deeper. “She still loves you, you know.” Suguru exhaled harshly, the kind of sound that’s almost a laugh but hurts too much to be one. “Not like she used to.” Hiromi nodded. “No. Not like that. But that kind of love doesn’t just vanish. It changes.” Suguru’s fingers gripped his own arms tighter. “You don’t have to explain anything,” he muttered. “I’m not,” Hiromi said, calm. “I’m just telling you the truth. Because someone should.” Another silence stretched, this one quieter. Cooler.

Suguru stepped forward, dragging out one of the kitchen chairs slowly. It scraped softly against the floor. He sat, folding his hands on the table.

“You’re in love with her.” It wasn’t a question and it didn’t need to be, Hiromi didn’t blink. “I am.” Suguru nodded once. “Does she know?” Hiromi’s voice was gentle. “She suspects. I don’t press it.”

“That’s smart.” Suguru looked down at his hands, brows drawn in tight. “She’s trying so hard to heal. To be whole again.”

“She is whole,” Hiromi said, firm and quiet. “She just has scars. We all do.” Suguru’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I left those.” Hiromi leaned forward again, his voice suddenly softer than it had been all evening. “You can’t go back and change the way you left. But you can change how you stay now. That’s what Sosuke needs.” Suguru’s throat bobbed. “And what about you? What do you need?” Hiromi blinked, taken off guard.

“I see the way you look at her,” Suguru continued, voice strained but steady. “The way you step in without asking. The way you love her without pushing. I’ve never been able to do that. Not with her. Not with anyone.” Hiromi didn’t speak for a long time. Then, quietly: “I just want her to feel safe. That’s all. That’s everything.” Suguru pressed his palms flat against the table. “She used to feel safe with me.”

“And now?” Hiromi asked gently, Suguru’s eyes flicked toward the hallway, toward the bedroom where you slept—wrapped around a child you had raised alone for the first month of his life, he closed his eyes. “I don’t know.” Hiromi stood then, slowly, with the calm grace of someone who had never needed to be loud to be strong. He turned to the sink, poured himself a glass of water, and stared out the window into the dark. “There’s room for you in his life,” he said after a moment. “But you have to carve it yourself. You can’t just walk in and expect it to fit. You have to build it. One day at a time.” Suguru stood too, moving quietly to the other side of the kitchen. He nodded once. “I’m trying.” Hiromi turned, looked at him. Really looked at him. “I know.” Another silence. This one less heavy. Still filled with tension, yes—but no longer sharp. It had dulled into something cautious. Something beginning to settle into its shape. “Goodnight, Suguru,” Hiromi said, voice soft, not warm, but not unkind. “Goodnight, Hiromi.”

And as Suguru stepped into the hallway, glancing one last time toward the bedroom door where his son and the woman he once loved lay sleeping, he understood—

The battle was over.

Not between them.

But within himself.

This was not a competition. It was a calling and from now on, he would answer it. With quiet hands. With presence. With patience. Because he wasn’t just learning how to be a father. He was learning how to be a man worth staying for.

The next morning was quiet, washed in honeyed light, the kind that poured through bedroom windows in slow, golden ribbons. You moved gently through the house, your robe tied loosely around your waist, Sosuke bundled in a pale blue blanket, blinking drowsily against your shoulder. Kaito was already with Hiromi—he had said he was going to take him for the day to his parents with a smile and a quiet "you deserve a little quiet." And Suguru—he had offered to drive you to Sosuke’s one-month check-up. He’d arrived early, hair still damp from the shower, dressed in soft gray slacks and a linen shirt, sleeves rolled up, collar open. He looked calm, collected—but his eyes still flicked anxiously between you and the baby like he was mentally rehearsing every possible thing that could go wrong.

You sat in the passenger seat, adjusting Sosuke’s car seat beside you in the back, your hand occasionally reaching to soothe him with a finger on his belly. The car was warm. Clean. It smelled like old cologne and summer air. A lo-fi instrumental played softly on the speakers—Suguru’s attempt to fill the silence. But you didn’t mind the quiet. Not with him. Not today. “I think he’s getting used to the car,” you murmured after a few minutes, glancing back as Sosuke kicked his feet softly in the seat, Suguru smiled faintly. “That’s more than I can say for myself.” You huffed a gentle laugh, turning to look out the window at the familiar blur of trees and old telephone poles. The town hadn’t changed much. But everything inside it had. Halfway there, as you adjusted the strap of your dress and reached for the water bottle in the cup holder, you heard it—a sudden, high-pitched snort from the backseat.

Then a raspberry.

Sosuke had blown a tiny bubble with his lips, completely unprompted. A little burst of spit dribbled down his chin, and his eyes widened like even he wasn’t sure where that had come from. Suguru glanced into the rearview mirror, blinked— and laughed.

Not a chuckle. Not a breath through the nose.

A laugh.

Low and warm, startled and unguarded. Like something cracked open without warning and sunlight rushed in. You turned to look at him, startled at first, then softened—stilled by the sound of it. You hadn’t heard him laugh like that in a long, long time. Suguru’s hand covered his mouth briefly, his shoulders shaking as he turned onto the next street. “He just—he made a face like he was offended by his own spit,” he said through a grin, voice warm, eyes flicking to you. “Like a tiny old man.” You laughed too, head tilting as you looked over your shoulder at Sosuke, who blinked solemnly, as if deeply disappointed in his mouth’s betrayal. You turned back to Suguru, smile softening into something gentler. “I missed that,” you murmured, more to yourself than him, his laugh stilled slowly, the car coasting gently beneath the branches overhead. “What?” You didn’t look at him as you spoke—eyes forward, voice quieter now. “Your laugh,” you said. “I missed it.”

Suguru’s hands tightened slightly on the wheel, the smile fading but not fully disappearing. “I didn’t think I still had it in me,” he admitted. You glanced over. “You do.” Another pause. Another silence, not heavy. Just… aware.

Of all the words left unspoken. Of everything still being rebuilt.

Sosuke made another gurgling noise, this time a squeaky sigh, and you smiled down at him. “He’s probably gonna be a talker,” you said fondly.

Suguru chuckled again, softer this time. “God help us.” You glanced sideways at him. “You say that now, but wait until he starts parroting your lectures about ancient civilizations in baby talk.” He smirked, voice dipping into mock-seriousness. “Did you know the Sumerians invented beer?”

“Please don’t be that dad,” you giggled. “I make no promises.” You fell into an easy silence after that, the car winding gently through the old parts of town, the baby fussing lightly and then quieting again. Your hand rested near the base of the car seat, fingers brushing the edge of his blanket as you stared out the window, the light flickering between trees. Suguru broke the silence again, this time carefully.

“I don’t want to miss things,” he said. “Little things. Like that.” He motioned back toward Sosuke, voice low. “The bubbles. The faces. All of it.”

You nodded slowly, your voice just as soft. “Then don’t.” He looked over at you for a heartbeat too long and maybe—just maybe—you both let yourselves live in the quiet for a moment longer. Not as lovers. Not as ghosts. But as two people trying to love the same tiny person the best way they could.

Together.

Even if that meant loving from different places.

Suguru turned into the clinic parking lot, pulling into a shaded space. He put the car in park, then looked at you. “I can carry him in.” You nodded, unbuckling your seatbelt. “He likes your chest better, anyway. Bigger surface area.” He rolled his eyes. “Not everything is about my broad shoulders.” You smirked. “Tell that to every button-down shirt you’ve ever owned.” He opened the door, laughing softly again and as you handed Sosuke off into his arms, you couldn’t help but notice the way Suguru cradled him now—not like something fragile or foreign. But like something precious. Familiar. His.

The clinic was tucked at the edge of town, a little brick building with ivy creeping along one side and wind chimes near the door that sang gently whenever someone entered. Inside, it smelled of lavender hand soap and freshly sharpened pencils—soft, calming, designed for new mothers and tired parents who needed the reassurance of warmth in fluorescent places. The nurse behind the desk greeted you by name. “He’s getting so big already,” she cooed as you signed in, her eyes drifting fondly to the sleepy bundle in Suguru’s arms. Sosuke let out a soft sigh, wriggled just a little, then curled closer to Suguru’s chest like he knew he was somewhere safe. Suguru said nothing, but he held his son with both hands.

Steady. Careful. Present.

The waiting room was nearly empty. A mother with a toddler flipping through a board book. A father yawning over a stroller. You sank into one of the cushioned chairs, exhaling as your body adjusted. Suguru sat beside you, still holding Sosuke, who had begun to stir—his little face twisting like he might cry, then immediately relaxing when Suguru began to sway ever so slightly, you smiled, watching. “You’re getting good at that.”

Suguru glanced down at the baby in his arms. “It’s muscle memory now. Like breathing.” Your gaze softened, but you didn’t say more. The nurse called your name. “Room three,” she smiled, holding the door open. You stood slowly, one hand braced on the armrest, the other on your hip. Suguru moved before you could ask, already adjusting Sosuke’s blanket, his hand settling at your back to guide you gently forward. He was warm beside you, quiet in a way that felt like steadiness now instead of absence.

The exam room was painted soft sage green, with decals of moon phases and woodland animals scattered across the walls. There was a rocking chair in the corner, a scale on the counter, and a paper-covered table in the center. The lights were low, diffused. You took a seat in the rocking chair while Suguru placed Sosuke carefully on the table, peeling back the layers of his blanket. The baby blinked up at the bright light, arms stretching out like tiny branches, mouth forming a perfect, silent ‘o’ as he let out a little whine. Suguru hummed under his breath. A low, soothing note. “Hey now,” he murmured, brushing a finger gently down Sosuke’s cheek. “It’s okay, little one. Just a quick weigh-in.” You watched it unfold from the chair—this small moment that once would’ve unraveled him. Now he stood, leaning slightly over the table, one hand cupping Sosuke’s kicking feet, the other resting near his head like a shield. The nurse came in moments later, clipboard in hand. “Oh! Look at you today,” she cooed, smiling at Suguru. “Is this Dad?” Suguru looked up, slightly startled. You answered for him. “Yes.”

Suguru’s lips parted—just a flicker of something in his eyes. Not pain. Not surprise. Just quiet realization. Like he hadn’t heard it spoken aloud before. The nurse began her check-up routine with practiced ease. Weight. Height. Temperature. She noted that Sosuke had gained weight since his last visit. “That’s a healthy little guy,” she said cheerfully. “Looks like someone’s getting lots of milk.” You blushed slightly, and Suguru huffed a small laugh under his breath. “Any concerns?” she asked. You shook your head. “Just a little gassiness, but he’s sleeping well. Eating a lot. He has this little smile sometimes when he’s dreaming.” Suguru added, “He likes the sound of water. Stops crying when we turn on the faucet.” You glanced at him, a little surprised, he shrugged, eyes still on his son. “I pay attention.”

The nurse smiled gently at that, then left with a promise that the doctor would be in shortly. The moment the door shut, the quiet wrapped around you again. Suguru adjusted the blanket over Sosuke’s belly, his hands large but impossibly gentle. You watched him from the chair, your fingers absently tracing the curve of your knee through the soft fabric of your dress. “You’re good with him,” you said softly, Suguru didn’t look up. “I don’t feel good.”

“But you are,” you said. “He knows it. You calm him down.” Suguru’s shoulders shifted, something unspoken working through him. “I keep wondering if he’ll forgive me for not being there when he opened his eyes for the first time.” You exhaled. “I think babies forgive more easily than we do.” Finally, he looked at you. There was no plea in his gaze. No begging for absolution. Just the quiet question of someone still learning how to forgive himself, you met it with calm. “You’re here now.” He nodded, eyes falling back to Sosuke, who had begun to smack his lips softly, squirming beneath the blanket. “Do you think he’ll look like me when he’s older?” Suguru asked suddenly, you smiled. “I think he’ll have your nose. He already has your serious face.” He huffed. “That’s not fair. That’s just the default expression of sleep deprivation.”

You laughed, and so did he—quieter this time, but no less real. The door opened and the doctor entered, a short woman with kind eyes and a tablet in hand. “Good morning,” she greeted. “Dad, feel free to stay right there. This won’t take long.” The exam was quick—heartbeat strong, lungs clear, reflexes good. The doctor praised his weight gain, noted the healthy color in his cheeks, the alertness in his gaze. “He’s doing beautifully,” she said, you let out a slow breath. “Thank you.” The doctor turned to Suguru. “And you’re doing beautifully too, Dad. I can see the bond already.” Suguru blinked. The praise didn’t land easily. But he nodded, quiet. “Thank you.” When the appointment ended, you dressed Sosuke again in his tiny onesie, smoothing down his hair as he blinked up at you, yawning dramatically. Suguru hovered beside you, ready with the blanket, and when you passed Sosuke into his arms, he took him like he’d been doing it all his life. You turned to grab the diaper bag, pausing for a beat before saying—so quietly you weren’t sure you meant to say it aloud:

“You’d make a good pediatrician.” Suguru’s head tilted slightly. “What?”

“You’re calm. Gentle. And you remember things. You’d be good at it.” He smiled faintly. “You always say that when I’m around babies.”

“I said it with Hiro too. When you used to babysit him and he threw his juice at your head.” He laughed again. “He was like a tiny war general. I was scared of him.” You smiled, brushing a stray curl from Sosuke’s forehead. “He liked you.”

“So do you,” Suguru said before he could stop himself, you blinked, your breath caught— and for one suspended second, the world narrowed to just that room—the quiet hush of white walls, the soft beep of a machine turning off, the warmth of summer pressing through the windows. You turned away gently, not answering and he didn’t press. He just followed you into the hallway, Sosuke secure in his arms and you walked side by side through the quiet clinic… Each step soft, measured, unrushed— learning how to carry this love in a new way—one that didn’t burn. One that stayed.

The drive home was quiet again, but this time, it wasn’t weighed down by anything heavy. Just a softness, like the hush after good news. Sosuke was already asleep in the backseat, his cheeks flushed from the warmth of the blanket and the subtle lull of the moving car. You turned slightly in your seat, brushing your hand through your hair before speaking. “Can we swing by my parents’?” Suguru glanced at you. “Of course.” You gave him a soft smile. “Mama made a casserole for us. She texted last night. Said she put ‘an entire summer garden’ into it. That usually means squash and too much thyme.” Suguru huffed a breath of a laugh. “That sounds about right.” He turned the car down the long gravel road that led to your childhood home—familiar and small, nestled behind wind-chimes and potted marigolds. The porch still creaked when stepped on. The oak tree in the front yard had a single tire swing swaying lazily in the breeze. You could already picture your mom wiping her hands on a dishtowel, looking out the window the way she always did when she knew someone was coming. Sure enough, as soon as Suguru parked and cut the engine, the front door flung open.

“My baby!” your mother called, her voice lifting with delight, you stepped out, and before you could even open the back door to reach Sosuke, she was already hurrying down the steps, a dishtowel still thrown over one shoulder. She made it halfway before she gasped at the sight of the carrier Suguru was lifting carefully from the car. “My grandson—give him here, come on—” she scolded affectionately, waving her hands in anticipation.

Suguru blinked, startled, but passed Sosuke over with surprising grace, watching as your mother immediately cradled him against her chest with practiced arms and a chorus of soft coos. “Oh, my sweet boy. Look at those cheeks. Look at that little nose—he’s perfect, absolutely perfect.” She bounced gently as she swayed in place. “Does he cry when you set him down yet? Or are we still in the honeymoon phase?” You snorted softly as you rounded the car. “Depends on the time of day. He thinks he’s the boss now.” She grinned, not looking away from the baby. “He is the boss now.”

Your father appeared in the doorway then, stepping onto the porch with his usual measured gait, his hands tucked into his cardigan pockets. He gave Suguru a small, quiet nod—formal, but not cold. There was no judgment there. Just a polite acknowledgment, the way fathers say “I see you, but we’re not quite friends yet.” Then his eyes turned to you, and they softened. “Hey there, sweetheart,” he said, opening his arms. Your throat caught unexpectedly. You hadn’t realized how much you needed that—his arms around you, the quiet strength of him. You stepped into the hug, folding gently against his chest, and let yourself breathe. Just for a second. “You doing okay?” he asked, one hand rubbing your back. “You look tired.”

“I am tired,” you admitted softly. “But okay?” he murmured, stepping back to look at you, you nodded, tears brushing the edges of your lashes. “Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Appointment go well?” your mother called over, already rocking Sosuke gently, one hand smoothing over the fine hairs on his head. “How’s his weight? Is he feeding enough? Did they say when he’ll start sleeping through the night or are we still in the ‘mom gets no peace’ stage?” You laughed. “Still no peace.” She gasped dramatically. “My poor girl. Someone get this child a nap and a wine spritzer.”

“She’s breastfeeding, Mom.” Your mother waved that off. “Fine, make it a grape juice spritzer and put it in a fancy glass. Let her pretend.” Suguru chuckled quietly behind you. Your father ushered everyone inside, holding the door open, and the scent of home wrapped around you instantly—fresh herbs and lemon soap, lavender from the diffuser on the counter. The casserole sat on the stovetop, covered in foil, and you could already see the telltale flecks of squash and tomato under the clear lid of the Pyrex. Suguru carefully set the diaper bag down near the couch, glancing over at you with a silent question—what do I do now? You nodded toward the dining table. “You can sit. It’s okay.” He took the seat beside your father, quiet but present. Your mother had already taken Sosuke to the rocking chair in the living room, swaying with him as if no time had passed since you were that size in her arms. She smiled softly, eyes still fixed on her grandson. “He looks like you when you were a baby,” she said. You smiled. “I hope not too much. He’s cuter.”

“No comment,” your dad muttered, sipping his tea, your mother laughed and looked toward Suguru. “You’re coming by a lot more now.” He nodded. “I moved into town a few weeks ago. Got a job at the college.” She blinked, surprised. “History?”

“Yes, ma’am.” She softened at the ‘ma’am,’ and nodded in approval. “Good. That’s good. Sosuke will need someone to explain ancient civilizations to him when he’s two and thinks he’s smarter than everyone.”

“He already thinks that,” you muttered, your father leaned toward you slightly. “And you? How are things… at home? Just the three of you?” You inhaled, meeting his gaze. “We’re… finding a rhythm.” He nodded. “That’s all you can do.” Your mother rocked a little faster. “And how’s Hiromi? Is he still bringing dinner like a dream?” You blinked. “Mom.”

“What?” she asked innocently. “He’s handsome, he can cook, and his son is adorable. I’m just saying. If I were thirty years younger and hadn’t already sworn off men—” You groaned. “Please don’t finish that sentence.” Your dad smirked, Suguru looked down at the table. Your mother continued anyway. “Well, I like him. He always texts to check on you. And little Kaito is just… darling. He helped me water the garden last week and told me my sunflowers ‘smiled at him.’” You smiled despite yourself. “He’s a sweetheart.” Suguru quietly rose then, walking over to the rocking chair. Your mom looked up at him, arms full of Sosuke. “Want him back?” Suguru hesitated, then nodded. She rose slowly, adjusting the blanket with practiced hands. “Here, make sure his head’s supported—yes, perfect, like that. Look at you,” she said, watching Suguru carefully cradle the baby to his chest. “You’re getting better at that.” Suguru didn’t reply. He just rocked a little in place, like he’d seen her do.

You watched him from the table, eyes soft, heart pulling in that complicated way it always did now—half ache, half awe. Your father reached across the table and gently placed his hand over yours. “You’re doing a good job,” he said simply and for once, you believed it. Even as everything else hung in the space between you and Suguru—unspoken, unhealed—you were still here.

The sun had long dipped beneath the trees by the time you got home. Your mother’s casserole was in a Tupperware container tucked under one arm, and Sosuke was half-asleep in the crook of Suguru’s. The baby had fussed through the car ride, flailing his fists until you’d promised—like some whispered oath—that a warm bath would fix everything. Now the house was quiet, dim, lit only by the golden light of the bathroom. You had filled the tub with a few inches of water, just enough to wash him—warm, not hot. Lavender-scented baby soap sat nearby, and a soft cotton towel, folded like a blessing, waited on the counter. Suguru was kneeling beside you, sleeves pushed up, his long hair tied in a low, loose knot. You had already undressed Sosuke, who was making tiny noises of protest as you gently lowered him into the tub. His eyes widened, his mouth forming a perfect little o at the sensation. Then he let out a single, breathy sigh, Suguru laughed softly. “He likes it.” You smiled. “Told you.”

You dipped the washcloth into the water, wringing it out before brushing it over your son’s belly. He kicked slightly, cooing, his fingers fluttering open like he was trying to touch the water’s surface. “Can I?” Suguru asked quietly, nodding toward the cloth. You passed it to him, shifting so he could lean in. He cradled the back of Sosuke’s head with one hand, brushing the warm cloth gently along his tiny arm, his little thigh. He did it slow, reverent, like he was learning a new language one stroke at a time. “I didn’t know it could feel like this,” Suguru murmured, you turned to him, brow furrowed slightly. “Feel like what?” He didn’t look at you. His eyes stayed fixed on his son. “This kind of love. It’s not heavy. Not like I expected. It’s not overwhelming, it’s just… full.” He rinsed the cloth. “Like I’ve never carried something this fragile in my life and now my entire world is in this plastic tub and he weighs less than a watermelon.” You smiled softly, eyes stinging. “It’s a kind of magic.” He nodded.

You reached to scoop a little water in your palm, pouring it carefully over Sosuke’s belly. He squirmed, kicking again. Then Suguru’s voice dipped lower. Rougher. “I think about him helping you.” You blinked. “Who?”

“Hiromi.” Suguru’s mouth was a line, his eyes fixed on the rippling water. “I think about him stepping in when I didn’t. I think about him watching you breastfeed, holding your hand in the hospital, walking into our house with food and his son and making it feel like home when it used to be mine.” You said nothing. “And I hate that I think that way,” he admitted, voice cracking. “Because he’s good. He’s good to you. And you deserve good. But it… it kills me, sometimes. Knowing I gave him space to grow there.” Your heart twisted. He reached down and cupped water into his hand, pouring it gently over Sosuke’s feet. The baby kicked once, then settled again, soothed by the warmth. “I should’ve been the one here,” Suguru whispered. “I should’ve been the one to make the bottle at 2 a.m. To hold your hair back when you cried. To build the bassinet and forget to read the directions and fight you over it. I should’ve—” His breath hitched. “I should’ve stayed.” You swallowed hard. “But you didn’t.”

“I know,” he said, barely audible. “I know.” The silence between you rippled like the water Sosuke splashed with a tiny fist, you reached for the towel. Suguru held out his arms without a word, letting you place the baby against his chest as he rose slowly to his feet. He wrapped the towel gently around Sosuke, cradling him like he was something sacred. You stood too, brushing your hands dry on your thighs. “He makes this place feel like home again,” you whispered, your eyes on Suguru holding your son. “Not because he replaced anything. But because he was made from everything we once had.” Suguru looked at you then and there it was again.

The love. The longing. The ache of everything you could no longer touch.

“I don’t know what the future looks like for us,” you said gently, “but I know what I need now. And it’s not chaos. It’s not guilt. It’s not waiting.” His grip on Sosuke tightened just slightly. “And what is it?”

“Peace,” you said softly. “Someone who shows up. Someone who chooses to stay even when it’s hard.” He nodded, the words settling deep. “I want to be that,” he said. You reached up, brushing your fingers over Sosuke’s damp hair. “Then start here.” And you both stood in that bathroom, bathed in the light of something too tender to name.

Your son. Your past. Your maybe.

The water cooled behind you. The towel warmed between your hands and in Suguru’s arms, Sosuke yawned, then let out a single coo that made both of you smile. Somewhere between heartbreak and healing… You had found a moment of stillness and maybe, just maybe— That was a beginning too.

taglist ; @stargirl-mayaa @shibataimu @anakinishotdoe @ohhheymessa @shibataimu @hellovanie @inixox0 @casssiesthings

[suku-enthusiasts]

This was one of my favorite one shots I've written in a while- I have a new set of one shots coming out soon "I'm So Much Better Than Him" ryomen sukuna hehe tyty

Were Just Friends || s. ryomen - (one shots)

❛ ❜ Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader (one shot series)

❝you asked your best friend to take your v-card. As friends. No feelings, no strings- Spoiler: it completely ruined your friendship. Now you're dodging each other, pretending nothing happened, while secretly nursing a years-long crush. From meme-filled silence to tearful confessions, jealous fights, and awkward flirting — somehow, you stumble your way into love, marriage, and a house full of sarcastic chaos. Turns out, “just friends” was never really the plan.❞

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. smut . anxiety. major fluff

main masterlist

we're just friends official arguments tough guy sukuna mine. mine. mine. text war anniversary shenanigans pain in the ass my parents blessings flu & clumsy proposals birthdays & part II farmers market suits & future father tipsy dress fittings jealousy is bitch new home & marriage

[suku-enthusiasts]

3 chapters have been released today in honor of my wife's birthday - agreements, first mission, & zenin problems !!

My Dearest || Ryomen Sukuna

❛ ❜ Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader (on going)

❝A thousand years after tragedy tore them apart, the immortal wife of Ryomen Sukuna lives in hiding with their cursed-born son. When Sukuna is resurrected in modern-day Tokyo, long-buried love reignites—along with ancient power, vengeance, and divine destiny. As their family reunites under the shadow of Jujutsu High, they must navigate past sins, present tensions, and the fragile future growing inside her. A dark romance of eternal love, reincarnation, and the monster who would burn the world to keep his queen.❞

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety. death. graphic scenes

chapters

the beginning & past the awakening red thread heir renjiro don't go tenderly agreements first mission zenin problems family bonding teasing & pride missing painting new home 1000 years

[suku-enthusiasts]

chapter nine || first mission - r. sukuna

❛ ❜ Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader (on going)

❝A thousand years after tragedy tore them apart, the immortal wife of Ryomen Sukuna lives in hiding with their cursed-born son. When Sukuna is resurrected in modern-day Tokyo, long-buried love reignites—along with ancient power, vengeance, and divine destiny. As their family reunites under the shadow of Jujutsu High, they must navigate past sins, present tensions, and the fragile future growing inside her. A dark romance of eternal love, reincarnation, and the monster who would burn the world to keep his queen.❞

word count; 4k

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety. death. graphic scenes

main masterlist | series masterlist | previous

The early morning light crept slowly over the horizon, casting a soft golden glow across the school grounds. A hush still blanketed the world, the silence before the school and students stirred, broken only by the breeze rustling through the trees that surrounded your cottage. Inside, your home was warm and filled with the scent of miso and rice — the last of the bento meals packed and resting neatly in Renjiro’s travel box. You moved about the kitchen in your robe, bare feet padding softly against the wooden floors, your heart heavy but steady. This was just a mission. You kept repeating that to yourself. A knock echoed gently from the front door. You opened it before it could knock again. Renjiro stood tall in his uniform, expression calm but weary, dark circles under his eyes betraying how little he slept. He looked over your shoulder, knowing his father would be close behind. “Breakfast is ready,” you said softly. “And your things are packed.”

“Thank you, mama.” He stepped in, setting his travel pack by the door and walking into the kitchen without a sound, and just as expected — a heavy presence followed. Sukuna appeared behind you, towering as ever, hair still damp from his early morning rinse, dressed in black loose slacks and a fitted haori that left much of his chest bare. He stretched lazily as if he weren’t preparing to leave for a special-grade cursed mission, all four arms flexing before settling at his sides. You stood between the two of them, your two greatest loves — one born from your body, the other who once razed kingdoms and now kissed your forehead goodnight. Renjiro finished his food quickly and began preparing to head out to the van waiting beyond the gates. But before he could reach for his bag, you stopped him, stepping forward and reaching up.

“Wait,” you whispered, he blinked and bent slightly down to you. You cupped his face, green eyes full of quiet worry. “Be careful. Please. Stay close to your father, and don’t try to be brave alone.” Renjiro’s expression softened, and he nodded. “I’ll come back, mama. Always.” You smiled and leaned in, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek. His cheeks warmed slightly, but he didn’t flinch — he never did with you. Then you turned to the larger shadow behind you. Sukuna cocked a brow, a smirk already tugging at one side of his mouth. “I suppose you want one too?” you asked, hands sliding around his waist. “I require it,” he muttered with a low, pleased growl. You rose to your toes, kissing him fully on the mouth — slow, soft, and lingering. But Sukuna didn’t allow the moment to remain sweet for long. One of his lower hands slid behind you and gripped your ass through your robe, squeezing tightly. You gasped into the kiss. Sukuna grunted hungrily, mouth chasing yours for more. Behind you both, Renjiro groaned in protest. “Really? Right now?” Sukuna pulled back, licking his lips with a crooked smirk. “If I die, I want my last memory to be grabbing your mother’s ass.” You turned, red-faced, swatting Sukuna’s chest, though your lips twitched at the corners with restrained laughter.

“Go,” you whispered, brushing your hand over Renjiro’s arm as he passed. “I’ll be here when you return.” Renjiro nodded once, sharp and sure, before walking out the door. Sukuna lingered a moment longer, hands tightening briefly around your waist, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ll bring the brat back in one piece,” he murmured. “And then I’m going to spend three days buried between your thighs.” You exhaled shakily, smiling with watery eyes. “Just come back.” He kissed you one final time, then turned, following his son into the morning light — two shadows cut from the same blade, vanishing into the waiting horizon. 

The air was thick with the heavy stench of rot and cursed decay as father and son stood at the edge of a forgotten battlefield — a place that had long since been consumed by the festering breath of curses. The sky was a bruise of grey, the clouds swollen and sullen overhead, and the trees around them groaned as though the land itself resented their presence. Renjiro inhaled slowly through his nose, his cursed energy already humming beneath his skin. He could feel them—two special grades lingering close, watching, waiting. His senses tingled as he glanced to his father, who stood statuesque in the tall grass, arms crossed, eyes narrowed with little more than casual disdain. “They’re surrounding us,” Renjiro murmured. Sukuna made a low, disinterested sound. “Of course they are. You’d think a thousand years would make curses smarter.” Renjiro smirked faintly, shifting his stance. “What’s the plan?” Sukuna turned his head slightly toward him. “The plan is you sit your ass down and watch.”

Renjiro blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Sukuna said, already walking forward toward the cursed presence like he was approaching an afternoon stroll. “This one’s mine. Consider this a lesson.” Before Renjiro could argue, the forest exploded with a guttural shriek. A massive hulking curse burst from the treeline, its skin split and pulsing with maggots and mouths, jagged limbs stretching impossibly far as it crashed through the clearing. Renjiro’s fingers curled instinctively, ready to spring into action — but Sukuna’s voice cut through the chaos. “Sit. Down.” Reluctantly, Renjiro crouched in the grass, biting back the tension in his limbs. “Fine. But if you die, I’m not explaining this to Mom.” Sukuna didn’t respond. He simply walked into the center of the field and sat down.

Actually sat.

One leg tucked under the other, one hand braced behind him, the other scratching lazily at his cheek — looking more like a man watching clouds than the King of Curses facing a special grade. The curse lunged, roaring like an avalanche, claws slicing the air. Sukuna didn’t flinch. He moved like water — tilting his head an inch to the side, letting the attack glide past his ear. Renjiro’s jaw clenched as he watched, sweat already dotting his brow. The cursed energy rolling off the creature was massive—unstable and terrifying. Any other sorcerer would be dead. But Sukuna yawned.

“You’re ugly,” he muttered to the curse. “And worse—you’re boring.” The curse screamed, hurling itself forward with double the speed. Still sitting, Sukuna lifted his lower left hand — one of four — and raised a single finger. A red slash of energy whipped through the air, so fast it barely existed.

The curse dropped in silence, bisected from crown to groin, and then disintegrated into ash, Renjiro was stunned silent. Sukuna finally stood, dusting his robes off as if brushing away lint. “Are they always this weak?”

“You just took down a special grade curse while sitting down,” Renjiro said flatly. “You have no right to complain.”

“I can do worse,” Sukuna said, turning to him. “Your turn.” The second curse leapt from the shadows — fast, serpent-thin, its many eyes blinking in jagged patterns as it skittered across the mossy stone and hissed. It was smarter than the first — more elusive. Renjiro stepped forward and exhaled, unlocking his cursed energy in a steady ripple. Black flames curled down his arms, dancing along the familiar markings on his face — the same ones that had once graced his father, now awakened by blood and legacy. The curse lunged, Renjiro blocked the first blow, his arms slamming up to catch its claws, and spun away from the tail strike that followed. His counterstrike was precise — an uppercut laced with cursed energy that sent the creature stumbling. It hissed, swiped again — grazing his shoulder this time. Renjiro grunted, blood soaking into his sleeve.

“Sloppy,” Sukuna called out from behind him. “You telegraphed your movement.”

“I got it,” Renjiro snapped, gritting his teeth. Sukuna smirked and leaned against a rock, folding all four arms again. “Don’t embarrass me.” Renjiro focused his breathing. He was bleeding. But he was still in control.

The curse circled again, faster this time, trying to confuse him. But Renjiro had trained under Satoru’s strict guidance for quite some time now. He knew how to move with intent. The moment the curse lunged again, Renjiro dropped low, driving cursed energy into the ground, sending up a shockwave. As the creature reeled, he rose with a brutal roar — slamming his fist directly into the core of its chest. The curse convulsed, cursed energy bursting outward — then collapsed into itself, shrieking as it burned into nothing. Renjiro stood there, breathing hard, blood on his arm and sweat on his brow. When he turned, Sukuna was staring.

Not smiling. Not smirking.

Just… observing.

“You’ve got power,” Sukuna said, tone unreadable, Renjiro straightened. “Thanks, I—”

“But your technique’s sloppy.” Renjiro glared. “Thanks, Father.” Sukuna chuckled. “Don’t whine. I said you had power, didn’t I?” Renjiro huffed, rolling his shoulder. “You don’t give out compliments easily, huh?”

“No,” Sukuna said simply. “Earn the next one.” They walked back toward the edge of the clearing in silence, the quiet stretch of forest around them returning to stillness. “…You didn’t have to protect me back there,” Renjiro said suddenly.

“I didn’t.” Renjiro glanced at him. Sukuna’s expression remained cool. “I just didn’t want to do paperwork if you died.” Renjiro laughed under his breath. “Right.” But something in him warmed, just a little. Even if he wouldn’t admit it — there was something deeply satisfying about fighting alongside his father, the King of Curses. Something grounding. Something… right, and despite Sukuna’s eternal arrogance and sharp tongue, he hadn’t left Renjiro’s side.

Not once.

The house was silent, but your heart was not. You stood in the kitchen, your fingers curled tight around the edge of the counter, staring at the door as if sheer will alone might make it open. The tea you had prepared had gone cold hours ago, untouched. The clock ticked in steady betrayal of your peace. You had tried to read. To clean. To breathe. But your soul was wound so tightly in anticipation, in dread, that nothing felt real without them home. You felt it first — the familiar pull of cursed energy brushing against the edge of your senses, dark and electric, saturating the air like a thunderstorm looming just outside the door. You gasped and ran, your bare feet pattering against the floor as you flung open the front door before either of them could knock. Sukuna stood there, looming and regal, one hand lazily resting on the back of Renjiro’s head, ruffling his hair with a strange gentleness that contradicted his four-armed, bloodstained form. Renjiro was smiling faintly, bruised but intact, his shirt singed and torn, the shoulder of it stained in red. He looked exhausted, but alive. Whole. You cried out his name, rushing toward them. Renjiro barely had time to brace before you were clutching his cheeks and inspecting his injuries, your hands fluttering over his shoulders, his arms, his face.

“I’m fine,” he murmured, embarrassed and fond all at once. “Mom—”

“I don’t care, let me see—”

“I said I’m fine,” he chuckled, though his voice softened. “You were more worried than usual.”

“I always worry,” you whispered, reaching up to brush his hair from his face. “Especially when it’s the two of you.” You turned to Sukuna then, who looked bored as ever, though his lower hands reached for you immediately. He pulled you close without a word, burying his nose into your hair with a low, contented sound that made your eyes sting. “You smell like blood,” you mumbled, arms tightening around his waist. “I hate when you smell like blood.”

“You still came running,” he replied, amused, his lips pressing into your temple. “Clingy little thing.”

“You’re home,” you murmured, voice breaking. “I don’t care how clingy I am.” Sukuna huffed and pressed a kiss against your cheek. His hands — all four of them — moved over your back, your hips, your lower spine. Like he needed to feel every inch of you just to be sure he was really here.

“Dinner’s ruined,” you mumbled. “I’m starving,” Renjiro muttered behind you, dragging his feet into the house. Sukuna smirked into your hair. “He was decent,” he said, not loud enough for Renjiro to hear. “But I wiped the floor with my curse.” You rolled your eyes. “Of course you did.” Still, you turned your face and kissed his jaw, your hands sliding up to his face, gently brushing your thumb along one of the marks beneath his eye. “Thank you,” you whispered. “For what?”

“For bringing him back. For keeping him safe. For coming back to me.” Sukuna looked at you then, truly looked at you — eyes narrowing with something ancient and unspoken, a depth of feeling he rarely let surface. He leaned down, brushing your lips with his. “Where else would I go?” he said, voice low and reverent. “You’re my home, woman.”

It had only been a few days since the mission, but the call came anyway — terse and vague, as always, from Satoru Gojo. You had been resting against Sukuna’s side when Renjiro walked in, already scowling. “Gojo wants us both,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Says it’s important.” Sukuna didn’t move for a moment. One of his lower arms was wrapped around your waist, the other lazily trailing up your thigh. He exhaled sharply, tilting his head toward your neck to mutter against your skin. “Bastard just likes wasting my time.” Still, when Renjiro was ready, Sukuna threw on his black kimono and they made their way to the main building. Inside Gojo’s office, the mood was far too casual for something labeled urgent. Satoru sat with his feet on the desk, sunglasses tilted halfway down his nose, a grin already waiting on his face.

“Look who finally decided to show up,” he said, voice sing-song. “Our star duo — father and son, destroyers of curses and general public menace.”

Renjiro gave a polite nod. Sukuna didn’t bother. “What do you want,” Sukuna said flatly, “or did you drag me here just to hear yourself talk?” Satoru clapped his hands together. “Now, now. Can’t I just want to commend you both? It was a clean mission. Impressive, even.” Renjiro blinked in surprise, almost flattered — until Sukuna scoffed. “Next time, put it in writing and save me the walk.” Satoru leaned back in his chair, amused. “You’re so grouchy. Is it because I pulled you away from your precious wife?” Sukuna raised an eyebrow, folding all four arms across his chest.

“Or maybe,” Satoru continued, a sly grin forming, “you’re just cranky because you can’t keep your—what’s the phrase—animal urges under control.” Renjiro’s jaw dropped. “Satoru—!”

But Sukuna only laughed, a low, menacing sound that had once chilled battlefields. “Oh, you’re just mad I’ve got somewhere warm to rest my head,” Sukuna said, voice laced with smug satisfaction. “Between thighs, not pillows.” Renjiro made a strangled noise, turning his head away like a scolded child. “Please—please stop.” Satoru chuckled, holding his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright. Damn. Not my fault you two are the hottest gossip in this place. I mean, it’s not every day the King of Curses gets clingy domestic.” Sukuna’s smile disappeared. “Say that again and I’ll take your tongue.”

“That’s the guy I read about,” Satoru said cheerfully, turning toward Renjiro. “Anyway, good work out there. You’re getting stronger. I think you’re almost ready for a special grade solo mission.” Renjiro cleared his throat. “Thank you. I’m ready when you are.” Satoru leaned forward slightly. “And don’t worry — your dad can stay home and—” he wiggled his eyebrows, “relieve some tension.” Sukuna growled, Renjiro sighed. “I hate both of you.”

The sun hung low in the sky, casting long golden streaks across the grass as the warm breeze stirred the scent of tilled soil and freshly planted herbs. You knelt in the garden outside your new cottage, your fingers buried in the dirt as you carefully patted down the base of a sprouting chrysanthemum. Beside you knelt a woman with kind eyes and a gentle voice, sleeves rolled to her elbows as she worked the soil beside you.

Utahime had introduced herself only an hour ago, brought by Satoru with little fanfare. You’d been wary at first, still adjusting to being on Jujutsu High grounds, to being seen — to not hiding. But she had smiled warmly, complimented your lavender bushes, and before you could retreat into the comfort of solitude, she’d been kneeling beside you, hands already in the dirt. “You know,” Utahime said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek as she gently placed a small tomato sprout into the earth, “I never thought I’d be helping you garden.” You laughed softly, tucking a curl behind your ear. “Why’s that?”

“I guess I just didn’t expect the King of Curses’ wife to be so...” She looked at you and smiled again. “Soft.” You smiled too, your gaze distant for a moment. “Sukuna isn’t soft,” you said quietly, fingers sifting the dirt. “But he’s soft for me.” Utahime’s eyes widened slightly, her cheeks coloring just a bit. “That’s… honestly kind of romantic.” You opened your mouth to reply when you felt it — Sukuna’s cursed energy brushing against your senses like a hand trailing down your back. You straightened up, and sure enough, just beyond the treeline, two figures emerged side by side.

Renjiro was walking just ahead of his father, arms folded and face serious, until his eyes found Utahime — and then he froze mid-step. Utahime, unaware of the turmoil she caused, stood and brushed her palms clean on her thighs, smiling brightly. “Renjiro.” Renjiro blinked, ears turning pink almost instantly. “Utahime.” There was a beat of silence.

You watched it happen — the unspoken awareness in your son’s shy glance, the pink blooming in Utahime’s cheeks. You smiled, amused. Sukuna snorted beside Renjiro. “Tch. And here I thought you were annoyed by me grabbing your mother’s ass in front of you,” he drawled, all four arms folding across his massive chest. “But now you’ve got a little plaything of your own?” Renjiro looked horrified. “Father!” Utahime’s eyes went round as she covered her mouth, stifling a laugh. “That is disgusting,” Renjiro snapped, shooting Sukuna a glare. “That is not how you treat a lady.” You tilted your head up from your place in the garden and said, deadpan, “This lady likes it.” The silence that followed cracked as Utahime giggled — not delicately, but openly, shoulders shaking a little. She looked at you with new eyes, surprised and delighted by the blunt honesty that sat so easily on your tongue.

Renjiro groaned audibly. “Mama, please.” You only smiled, wiping your dirt-streaked hands on a towel and rising to your feet. “I like him,” Utahime said to you in a whisper, nodding toward Renjiro. “He’s so serious. It’s cute.”

“I’ll trade you,” you said with a smirk. “Mine’s got four hands and no manners.” Sukuna let out a huff behind you. “You weren’t complaining when I had all four on you last night.”

“Sukuna!” Renjiro choked, cheeks blazing now as he stepped between his father and Utahime, glaring at him like a teenager mortified by his parents. You slipped your arm into Sukuna’s lower left, hugging it close. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” he said with a wicked smile, leaning down to press a kiss to the crown of your head. Utahime chuckled again, glancing sideways at Renjiro. “Your family is… something else.” Renjiro exhaled like the weight of the world was on his back. “You have no idea.”

The low hum of quiet conversation and the clinking of porcelain filled the cozy dining space of the cottage. The lanterns glowed golden against the wood-paneled walls, dancing in flickers across the black trim of Sukuna’s robe and casting soft light over the table you’d carefully set earlier that evening. A woven centerpiece of dried flowers and herbs sat between the dishes you had prepared—rice with simmered vegetables, grilled fish with citrus, and your special spiced dumplings, always Renjiro’s favorite. Utahime sat between Renjiro and you, her posture polite but relaxed, shoulders easing more with each passing minute. She had removed her shoes at the door without you asking, and when offered a drink, she accepted with a warm “Thank you,” smiling at you like you were an old friend rather than someone she’d met only earlier that day. Sukuna, of course, took the seat at the head of the table — towering, relaxed, and shirtless as usual. He had no shame in dining in only his hakama pants and left most of the conversation to you and Utahime at first, until something piqued his interest.

“So, Utahime,” you said with a soft smile as you passed her a small dish of pickled radish, “Renjiro mentioned you’re a teacher?”

“Yes,” she nodded, accepting the dish gratefully. “I teach at the Kyoto branch of Jujutsu High. Mostly theory and history now, though I used to take part in field work.” You tilted your head, genuinely impressed. “That’s incredibly impressive. And brave.”

“She’s a genius,” Renjiro added, cheeks pink but voice proud. “I’ve seen her talk Satoru into silence. She knows more about cursed technique theory than—”

“Oh please,” Utahime interjected with a soft laugh, nudging him with her shoulder. “You’re exaggerating. But… thank you.” Sukuna leaned forward on one elbow, plucking a dumpling from his plate with clawed fingers, chewing slowly before he spoke. “A woman with a sharp mind… wasting it teaching children how to throw imaginary punches.” Utahime blinked. Renjiro froze with his chopsticks halfway to his mouth. You sighed quietly, already used to this. Sukuna gestured vaguely with his chopsticks, one of his upper hands flicking the air lazily. “You could be ruling something. Taking what you want. Using your intelligence to command armies or overthrow weak rulers who cling to illusions of strength. But instead…” He gestured again, scoffing. “You babysit teenagers with inferiority complexes.” Utahime laughed—startling even Renjiro. “I mean,” she said, lifting a brow, “you’re not entirely wrong. But that’s rich coming from a man who lives in the woods and yells at landlines.” You nearly choked on your tea. Renjiro let out a short laugh, covering his mouth. Sukuna narrowed his crimson eyes. “The landline is cursed.”

“No, Sukuna,” you said sweetly, patting his leg, “it’s just a telephone.”

“I don’t trust it.”

“You don’t trust a water heater either.”

“I felt it hum! It was vibrating like a goddamn spirit!”

“You hit it with a sword.”

“And it stopped.”

Utahime was grinning now. “I think I see where Renjiro gets his logic.” Renjiro groaned. “I don’t hit appliances with swords, thank you.” Sukuna huffed. “You should. The heater respected me afterward.” You placed your hand over your face, chuckling softly as you leaned into your husband’s side. His upper arm curled around your waist, drawing you closer like it was instinct. You felt his cheek press into the top of your head, his other hand still occupied with his chopsticks. “I’m starting to understand what Satoru meant,” Utahime said, watching the two of you with a gentle smile.

“About what?” Renjiro asked, glancing between the three of you. She tilted her head thoughtfully. “That your mother and father are the strangest love story the jujutsu world’s ever known.” You felt the words like a warmth in your chest, despite the strangeness of them. Sukuna scoffed but didn’t argue. Instead, he said, voice low and gruff, “There’s nothing strange about loving what’s mine.” You looked up, catching the flicker of something rare in his expression — softness. Utahime, watching you both, said quietly, “That’s… actually very beautiful.” Renjiro let out a long breath. “Gods, don’t encourage them.”

You all laughed then — the sound light and rich, woven into the warm scent of food and the flickering lamplight. For a moment, it didn’t matter who you were, what you’d lost, or what haunted you. It was just family, and peace, and the laughter of a boy a thousand years old, his mysterious companion, and the most feared man the world had ever known — at home, at last, at your table.

NEXT

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[suku-enthusiasts]

chapter eight || agreements - r. sukuna

❛ ❜ Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader (on going)

❝A thousand years after tragedy tore them apart, the immortal wife of Ryomen Sukuna lives in hiding with their cursed-born son. When Sukuna is resurrected in modern-day Tokyo, long-buried love reignites—along with ancient power, vengeance, and divine destiny. As their family reunites under the shadow of Jujutsu High, they must navigate past sins, present tensions, and the fragile future growing inside her. A dark romance of eternal love, reincarnation, and the monster who would burn the world to keep his queen.❞

word count; 4.8k

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety. death. graphic scenes

main masterlist | series masterlist | previous

The sun cast a soft golden haze over the Jujutsu High training grounds, where the clash of cursed energy echoed like rhythmic thunder. It was just another afternoon, blades slicing air, shouts of determination rising against the weight of fatigue. Renjiro stood at the edge of the training circle, his breathing steady despite the hour-long sparring session with Maki. Megumi was correcting Nobara’s stance nearby, and Yuuji was brushing sweat from his forehead while teasing Panda, who had just knocked Inumaki off his feet. It was normal. Controlled. Predictable.

Until it wasn’t.

Renjiro felt it before he saw anything — the cursed energy hit like a phantom blade against the soul, ancient and thick, alive with blood and history. It didn’t crash over him like a threat. It resonated. His breath hitched as his entire body paused mid-movement, eyes flicking toward the perimeter wall, his mind already screaming a name.

Father.

He turned.

At first, all he saw was Gojo stepping through the gates, sunglasses glinting beneath the sun, casual as ever. But flanking him — towering in height and darker than any shadow — was Ryomen Sukuna, and next to Sukuna was you. You were almost hidden beside him, clinging to the edge of his black kimono as if the ground might fall from beneath your feet. Your figure was small, barely a breath against his broad frame. Your green eyes darted across the training field in nervous flinches, haunted and overwhelmed. Renjiro’s heart stopped, his mother — the strongest woman he knew, who never cracked, never wavered — looked utterly fragile. Shy. Timid. She clung to his father like a frightened girl, and the sight of it shattered something inside him. He dropped his practice weapon and bolted forward. The others watched with wide eyes as he raced toward the approaching group, their cursed energy still lingering around them like a shroud of ghosts. “What’s going on?” Renjiro’s voice rang out, breathless and sharp, as he skidded to a halt before Gojo. “Why are they here?” His chest rose and fell in shallow bursts, eyes flicking between you and Sukuna, wild and disbelieving. Satoru didn’t answer immediately. He was watching the reunion like a man monitoring a fault line for the first quake.

You stepped forward before Gojo could speak, your hand trembling as it reached out to your son.

“Renjiro,” you whispered, voice raw and small. “I—I didn’t know. Satoru just—he came back.” Sukuna was silent beside you, his crimson eyes locked on his son’s face. There was no smirk. No pride. Just a grave, stoic weight that sat between them like old stones left unturned for too long. Renjiro’s breath shook as he stepped forward and pulled you into his arms, holding you tight against his chest. “You’re shaking,” he whispered. “Mom…”

“I thought he was going to die again,” you sobbed into his chest, fingers clinging to the fabric of his shirt. “Satoru came. He—he gave Sukuna a choice. Either come here or be killed. I couldn’t lose him again.” Sukuna’s jaw clenched at your words, but he said nothing, watching as you collapsed into your son — the very son he had held as a newborn under the silver moon a thousand years ago. Renjiro pulled back slowly, his gaze lifting to meet his father’s, and for the first time, he didn’t flinch.

“You didn’t hurt her, why is she trembling?” he asked, voice low and laced with a warning only a son could deliver. “No,” Sukuna answered simply.

Renjiro nodded once, stiffly. “I told Gojo,” he muttered. “You don’t want war. That you only wanted her.” Sukuna’s eyes softened — just barely.

“I was right,” Renjiro said, quieter now. “Wasn’t I?” There was no verbal reply. But Sukuna took a slow breath, then reached for you, pulling you gently to his side. His hand settled around your waist, fingers pressing with quiet possession and protection. Renjiro watched the way you leaned into him, how your body instantly responded to his touch like a memory never lost.

It hurt. But it also made sense.

Gojo finally spoke, voice light but not unkind. “They’ll be staying here for a while. You’ll help keep an eye on things. Make sure your old man doesn’t start any... projects.” Renjiro narrowed his eyes. “I can’t believe this.” Sukuna, at last, cracked a grin. “You’re not the only one.” You reached for Renjiro’s hand again, still trembling. “Everything happened so fast.” Renjiro looked at you long and hard — then squeezed your hand gently. “I’m not scared,” he whispered. “I just… I just don’t want to lose either of you.” Sukuna’s eyes flickered at that, and for the briefest moment, the King of Curses looked like a man.

The corridors of Jujutsu High were too quiet. Though your footsteps were soft, the echo of Sukuna’s heavier stride beside you sounded like war drums through sacred halls. You walked close to him, not from fear — not anymore — but because you could feel the way his presence disrupted the very air. Students peered from doorways and corners, not daring to whisper, barely breathing.

The King of Curses had returned.

And he walked with you at his side.

You hated the silence of official spaces. The quiet here wasn’t peace — it was observation. Watchful. Suffocating. You stayed close to Sukuna as Satoru led you both through the main building, a casual saunter in his step as if the King of Curses wasn’t casting enough cursed energy to split the sky. Satoru opened the door to his office and gestured with a smug grin. “Come on in, lovebirds. Let’s get the paperwork out of the way.” You felt Sukuna stiffen beside you. “I’m already regretting not killing him in that van,” he muttered under his breath. You gently touched his wrist. Not now. Please. Inside, Satoru slumped down in his chair like it was a throne, kicking his feet up and crossing them as he offered a bright smile. His sunglasses were slightly askew, but his voice was syrupy smooth. “Well,” he began, folding his hands behind his head, “this is the official part of the arrangement. Don’t worry, it’s nothing too intense. Just a few expectations, some boundaries, and a whole lot of trust you haven’t earned.”

Sukuna didn’t sit. He stood tall beside you, his towering frame casting a long shadow across the desk. His eyes glowed with a slow-burning fire, lip curling. “You’re awfully bold for someone who couldn’t kill me.” Satoru grinned wider. “You’re awfully calm for someone who’s only here because of your wife.” That did it — you reached for Sukuna’s arm and gave it a small tug, grounding him. His jaw flexed, but he didn’t retaliate. Satoru clicked his tongue. “Relax. I’m just making sure we’re clear.” He sat forward and tapped a paper on his desk. “This is the agreement. You don’t leave the premises unless cleared. You don’t attack anyone, even if they deserve it. You will assist when requested — that means helping exorcise curses, protect civilians, maybe even train the next generation if we trust you enough not to eat them.” Sukuna growled low in his throat. “I won’t be your puppet.”

“And we won’t be your threat,” Satoru replied easily. “Fair’s fair.” At that exact moment, the door swung open with a heavy creak. “Gojo.” You turned to see Kento Nanami stride in, his calm, unreadable expression a sharp contrast to Satoru’s cocky ease. He looked between you and Sukuna — not with fear, but with the respectful caution of a man who understood power. “Still playing the fool?” Nanami asked Satoru dryly. “Or have you actually explained anything?” Satoru chuckled. “They’re here, aren’t they?” Nanami ignored him and approached you and Sukuna with calm precision. He gave a polite, respectful bow — first to you, then, without hesitation, to Sukuna. “Forgive the arrogance,” he said to you. “I am Kento Nanami. And I’ll be assisting in your transition here, should you choose to cooperate.” Sukuna stared at him for a moment, then extended a hand. They shook — firm, slow. A meeting of ancient might and grounded control. “We’re not here to force you into anything,” Nanami continued. “But we do have expectations, and they’re not unreasonable.” He folded his arms. “Protect civilians. Support where needed. Train if possible. We’re not trying to use you. But we are trying to make sure the world doesn’t fear your return.” Nanami’s eyes flicked briefly to you. “Especially since you’ve chosen to live peacefully. And we want to continue our work with your son. His presence here is valuable.” You felt your shoulders begin to lower slightly. His tone, his clarity — it helped. It felt like you were being spoken to as a person. Not a ticking bomb.

Nanami then looked Sukuna in the eye. “We’re not allies. Not yet. But we are parents. And I know you’d burn the world down for your wife and child. So would I.” Sukuna’s lips twitched — not quite a smile, but something close to it. “I’ll cooperate,” he said, voice quiet but edged with warning. “But if anyone threatens what’s mine again, I will make an example out of them.” Nanami nodded. “Understood.” Satoru leaned back and muttered, “Touching. Now, can we all go eat before this place turns into a Hallmark reunion special?” You shot him a glare. Sukuna didn’t move, but the floor beneath him cracked ever so slightly. Nanami sighed. “I’ll show you to your new home, quiet, away from students.” You nodded, feeling Sukuna’s hand find yours again, and this time, you didn’t just hold it, you squeezed it tight.

The walk was silent for the most part, save for the soft crunch of gravel beneath your shoes and the distant rustle of leaves overhead. The air felt lighter the farther you moved from the main school building. Trees thickened along the path, bending gently in the summer wind, the hum of cursed energy replaced by something quieter — something almost peaceful. Kento Nanami led the way, hands in his pockets, speaking only when necessary, never forcing conversation. You appreciated that. After so much noise, so many eyes, the quiet was a kindness. “This way,” he said, veering off the path onto a narrow foot trail lined with moss and stone. You glanced up at Sukuna, who walked at your side, his massive form still coiled with restrained energy. He hadn’t let go of your hand since you left the office, and now, you could feel his thumb slowly brushing against your knuckles — a small, grounding motion. He hadn’t said a word since Nanami stepped in. Not out of submission, you knew, but something closer to respect.

Then, the trees parted.

And before you stood a house — no, a home.

The structure rose sturdily among the trees, its roof gently sloped, its wood a warm, natural shade that blended with the earth around it. It wasn’t large by modern standards, but it was tall and strong, its door designed wide, its ceilings raised high. Windows were framed in dark cedar. A wraparound porch hugged the side. But what struck you most was the stillness. It was utterly quiet here. Removed from the buzz of students, away from the scrutiny and training and world-saving missions. “This is yours,” Nanami said simply. “Built over the last few years. Just in case.” Sukuna raised a brow. “In case of what?” Nanami turned to him. “In case you came back… and decided to stay.” You looked at him, startled. “We knew Uraume might attempt something,” Nanami continued. “Gojo always kept tabs on the possibility. But… not all of us thought it would end in chaos.”

He motioned to the home beside yours, a smaller, two-story structure tucked slightly behind the trees.

“That’s for Renjiro,” he said. “He’ll live nearby, but on his own. You’ll have privacy, and he’ll still have space to grow. I’m sure a man over a thousand years old, would like his own space.” You felt something shift in your chest. Not grief. Not fear.

Relief.

Slow, cautious, but real.

Sukuna stepped forward, examining the porch, then the structure itself. His claws brushed the wooden beams, his eyes narrowing at the craftsmanship. “They built this for me?” he asked. Nanami nodded. “Custom reinforced. Won’t crumble if you breathe too hard.” Sukuna gave a rare, amused grunt. “And it’s permanent?” you asked, stepping up beside him. “Yes,” Nanami said. “It’s yours. Not a holding cell. Not a borrowed room. A home. For however long you choose to stay.” You turned and looked at the trees again, the way the sun filtered through the canopy and painted light across the porch. You could smell the soil, the clean air. It reminded you, somehow, of your garden long ago — the one he used to sit beside while you tended the herbs. Your fingers tightened around Sukuna’s. “You’ll inform Renjiro?” Sukuna asked. “I will,” Nanami said. “He’ll need time to adjust. But I don’t expect it will be an issue.” Sukuna gave a single nod, then finally exhaled — not heavily, but enough for you to feel it ripple through his chest. For the first time since his return, since the world had begun shifting once more, you saw his shoulders drop.

The tension didn’t vanish, but it lessened. “Come inside,” he murmured to you. You followed him up the steps and through the door — into your new home, built not from fear or desperation, but from something that almost felt like hope.

It had been a week since you arrived at Jujutsu High, and the quiet forest surrounding your new home had grown familiar — not quite comforting yet, but safe in a way you hadn’t dared to believe in for centuries. The van had come that morning, sleek and black, pulling up the private path as soft sunlight draped across the mossy stones. Boxes were stacked on the porch now — your books, your baking tools, your favorite old kettle — all the things from your little apartment in Tokyo. The last fragments of your old life delivered like relics. Inside, the air was still. You could hear the faint sound of water boiling in the kitchen as Sukuna moved with unnatural grace, always so aware of his strength even when surrounded by delicate things. Renjiro stood near the doorway, arms crossed tightly over his chest, watching as you unpacked a set of tea cups and carefully placed them in the cupboard. His brows were furrowed — not with anger, but worry. The kind of worry only a son could wear. You turned and smiled at him, gentle and soft, but his gaze flickered to the shadow that lingered just behind you — Sukuna, who had stepped in close, resting a hand low on your back. Renjiro’s jaw clenched.

“Still watching over her like she’s glass,” Sukuna muttered, voice low but firm. “She’s not. She’s mine.” Renjiro’s eyes snapped to his father’s.

“And you think I don’t know that?” His tone cracked — not loud, but sharp. “You think I need reminding of who she belongs to?” Sukuna tilted his head slightly, crimson eyes narrowing. “I think you’ve been coddling her like a boy who doesn’t know his place.” Renjiro stepped forward. “I’ve earned my place,” he said, voice low. “For over a thousand years, I’ve watched over her. Protected her. I’ve held her when she cried for you. I built a life with her when you were gone. I may be your son, but I’m not a child.” The air grew heavy with cursed energy, thick enough to still the wind outside. “She is my wife,” Sukuna said darkly. “It’s not your job to cling to her anymore.”

“No,” Renjiro snapped, “but it was. For a thousand years, it was just us. Do you understand what that does to someone?” Sukuna flinched. You stepped between them, one hand on each of their chests — their hearts, beating differently, bound by blood and history and grief. “I don’t want this,” you whispered. “Not now. Please.” Renjiro looked at you, and his face softened. The anger faded, replaced by something more brittle. “She’s everything I had,” he said, eyes locked on Sukuna. “And now you want to walk back into her life and pretend I haven’t been enough?” Sukuna’s expression twisted, not in rage — but in something older. Regret. He lowered his eyes for a moment. A rare gesture. A rare silence. “I never said you weren’t enough,” he said, voice hoarse. “I only said she was mine.” You stood still between them, heart aching. Two halves of your soul at odds, both carrying a different kind of wound. Neither of them wrong. Both of them broken.

You looked up at Renjiro. “I love you,” you said. “You are the reason I survived all those years.” And then to Sukuna. “And you are the reason I wanted to keep living.” Neither man spoke, but slowly, Renjiro stepped back. Not in defeat — but in restraint. “I’ll be in my cottage,” he said quietly, and left the room without another word. The door shut softly behind him, you stayed there, your hand still resting over Sukuna’s heart, feeling the storm settle… if only for now.

The landline rang. A shrill, insistent sound that echoed off the kitchen walls. You were now in the back room folding laundry, Renjiro out training for the day, after the interaction earlier in the morning. Sukuna was closest — lounging on the couch, eyes half-lidded, bare chest glinting with the low golden light of late afternoon. He glanced at the phone like it had personally insulted him.

Again, the ringing.

You poked your head into the room. “Can you get that?” He scowled. “What the hell is that noise?”

“The phone, Sukuna,” you sighed. “The landline. I told you about it.” He grunted, rising like a looming beast from the couch. As he stomped to the corner table where the phone sat, the floor creaked beneath his weight. The ringing stopped the moment he lifted the receiver. “What,” he growled into the mouthpiece. There was a pause.

Then: “Oh my god, you actually answered it,” came Satoru’s chipper voice on the other end. “I thought I’d have to send a crow.” Sukuna's eye twitched. “Who the hell—”

“It’s Gojo,” Satoru said, amused. “I was checking in. You know, since we gave you a civilized place to live. Figured I’d see if the King of Curses had finally learned how to use basic technology.”

“What do you want, you smug bastard?”

“Ohhh, there it is. The ancient fury. Really leaning into that whole prehistoric demon husband aesthetic, huh?” Sukuna’s clawed hand tightened around the phone. “I will destroy this thing.”

“Yeah, yeah, destroy the phone, destroy the world, yada yada. Look, just tell your adorable wife to check her messages. There’s a meeting about Renjiro’s mission next week—” CRACK. The phone shattered in Sukuna’s hand, reduced to a splintered mess of wires and plastic. Bits of the receiver hit the wall, the broken cord dangling pathetically from his palm. You came running, wide-eyed. “Sukuna!” He stood there fuming, red eyes glowing, cursed energy crackling faintly off his skin. “That thing,” he hissed, “is cursed.” You blinked at the shattered remains. “You broke the landline.”

“I told you it was cursed.” You placed your hands on his chest, trying not to laugh. “You broke the only thing we had for the school to reach you.”

“They can use the boy,” he muttered. “He’s their little pet now.”

“Sukuna…” He turned toward the door, jaw tight. “I’m going out.”

“No—wait!” You rushed after him, grabbing his arm before he could vanish. He paused, looking down at you, still seething. “I don’t care how mad you are,” you said, voice small but firm. “You kiss me before you storm off.” His eyes softened — barely. But enough. You wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to his chest, ignoring the way his cursed energy still buzzed around him like a thundercloud. He stood frozen for a moment, torn between his temper and your affection.

Then — a sigh. His arms came around you. Strong. Warm. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips. “Clingy woman,” he muttered, you smiled against his mouth. “Spoiled man.” He kissed you again, slower this time. “I’ll be back,” he murmured, voice rough, brushing your hair from your face. “Don’t miss me too much.” You let him go with a soft laugh, standing barefoot in the doorway as he stepped out into the dying light. Behind you, the shattered phone still sat on the floor — a small casualty in the war between ancient kings and modern life.

The sun was low in the sky when Sukuna strode onto the training grounds, the hem of his black robes trailing just above the stone path. His presence made the air feel heavier, the lingering scent of bloodless violence following him like a shadow. He looked at home among chaos — but now, there was no battle to wage, only bored stares and gritted teeth. “Where is he?” Sukuna growled, eyes scanning. Renjiro was already there, leaning against one of the outer columns, arms folded. He straightened slightly when he saw his father, offering a dry nod. Satoru appeared behind him with a lazy wave. “Well, well, look who finally figured out how to walk into a meeting without breaking a door.” Sukuna's red eyes narrowed. “You’re pushing it, Gojo.”

“Oh, please,” Satoru said, grin wide. “You already broke the phone. I figured I’d give you something else to throw.” Renjiro sighed. “He doesn’t trust phones. Or laptops. Or anything that doesn’t have cursed energy and fangs.” Sukuna grunted. “Because they are cursed. Artificial. It’s like binding my soul to a puppet.” Satoru chuckled, patting Renjiro’s shoulder. “You’ve got your hands full, kid.”

“I’ve had my hands full for a thousand years,” Renjiro muttered. More sorcerers arrived, forming a quiet circle under the large open pavilion. Maki, Panda, Yuta, Inumaki — all observing the infamous King of Curses now among them not as a foe… but an ally. The tension in the air was thick enough to slice. Satoru clapped his hands once. “Alright! Mission briefing. We’ve got a special-grade sighting just outside Kyoto. Strong cursed presence, nasty distortions in space. We’re sending our heaviest hitters.” He turned to Sukuna and Renjiro, smirking. “You two.” Sukuna raised all four of his arms and crossed them, the very picture of reluctant royalty. His face twisted in theatrical boredom. “So what,” he said dryly. “You’re sending me on a play date with my own son?”

“Think of it as family bonding,” Satoru said, Renjiro tilted his head. “He is the only one who can keep up with me.” Sukuna rolled his eyes. “The world really has gone soft.” Before Satoru could fire back, the door opened again — and in walked Yuuji Itadori. Sukuna’s expression darkened immediately. Yuuji smiled nervously, waving. “Hey… so, you probably don’t want to see me—”

“You think?” Sukuna snapped, his voice colder than steel. “The last time I saw your face, I was trapped in it.” Yuuji raised his hands. “Yeah, I get that. It wasn’t fun for me either.” Satoru cleared his throat. “Relax, Sukuna. Yuuji’s just here to observe. Consider it closure, and new beginnings.” Sukuna sneered. “Closure would be ripping him in half.”

“Father,” Renjiro warned, standing closer to him now. Sukuna grumbled something under his breath and looked away. Yuuji looked between the two of them, eyes softening slightly as he landed on Renjiro. “You’re really his son, huh?” Renjiro gave a nod. “Unfortunately, yes.” Satoru laughed, clapping both their shoulders. “Alright, enough family drama. You two leave tomorrow at sunrise. Pack light. And Sukuna…” Sukuna turned toward him slowly. “Try not to kill anyone you’re not supposed to,” Satoru said with a wink, Sukuna didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to his son, all sarcasm gone. “You better not slow me down.” Renjiro met his gaze. “You better try to keep up.” And for the first time since arriving at Jujutsu High… Sukuna smiled — not mockingly, but dark and pleased. Something had shifted, and the world would feel it soon.

The night air was warm, thick with the scent of jasmine from the garden outside the cottage. Inside, soft amber light flickered from the candles you’d lit, casting golden shadows along the walls. You moved quietly around the kitchen, the final container of bento-style food tucked neatly into the woven travel box. Two hours was a long drive, and Sukuna didn’t like to stop. You knew that. You knew everything about him now. Renjiro’s portion had already been delivered next door — he’d opened the door sleepy-eyed and smiled, thanking you with a promise to meet you both at the car before sunrise. Now, all that was left was Sukuna. The bath steamed gently in the adjacent room, filling the air with the calming scent of cedar and herbs. You walked in, towel wrapped around your body, and placed a small jar of oil on the ledge before turning to leave — only to hear his voice rumble low behind you.

“Leaving so soon?” he asked, lounging in the water like a demon king in repose. His hair was wet, dark strands clinging to the markings on his skin. His arms — all four — rested against the stone ledges, broad chest glistening, legs stretched long beneath the surface. “I was just letting you relax,” you murmured, turning back with a small smile. “I don’t want to relax,” he said, voice dipping lower. “I want you.” You hesitated at the threshold. “Sukuna… you have to get up early. We already—”

“I need you,” he said, not cruelly, not as a demand — but like a man craving water in a desert. “Come to me.” Your heart fluttered. The towel slid from your body without resistance. He watched, unmoving, as you stepped into the water, the heat wrapping around you like silk. As soon as your knees touched the stone beside him, his arms surrounded you — his larger frame drawing you close against his chest with ease. “You’re soft,” he whispered into your ear, pressing kisses along your jaw. “Even after all these years.”

“You never stop touching me long enough to give me a chance to firm up,” you teased. He chuckled, the sound vibrating against your back as he nuzzled his nose into the crook of your neck. One hand moved slowly down your stomach, the other cupping your breast, thumb brushing across your nipple. The heat of the bath was nothing compared to the warmth blooming between your thighs. “I want to feel you,” he said, lips against your temple. “Before I go.” You turned to him, breathless, and kissed him — slow and aching. One of his lower hands slipped between your legs, fingers brushing tenderly against the soft folds already slick from heat and longing. You whimpered as he slowly pressed one thick finger inside you, stroking carefully, loosening you, preparing you like he always did — with reverence and need wrapped in one.

“Easy,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder. “I’ll take care of you.” Moments later, you felt it — the broad, heavy press of him slipping between your thighs. He held you close as his hips shifted forward, guiding one of his cocks inside your aching, wet heat. You gasped into his mouth, clawing at his shoulders, every nerve alight. “Shh,” he soothed, breath stuttering as he slowly sank deeper into you. “You always take me so well.” The water sloshed around you as his hips began to move — slow, deep thrusts that made your head fall back. His teeth scraped your neck, hands roaming every inch of your body, holding you open, worshiping you like he would never get the chance again. “I’m going to miss you,” you whispered. “I’m not going far,” he said, voice strained with restraint. “But you’ll still ache for me. Won’t you?” You nodded, eyes fluttering shut, clinging to him as his pace grew more desperate, more searching. “Say it,” he growled, kissing you harshly. “I’ll ache,” you whispered against his lips. “Only for you.”

He groaned, rutting deeper into you, the head of his cock dragging over every nerve inside you with unrelenting precision. The water rippled with your bodies, splashing against the stone, the room filled with panting, kissing, and soft gasps.

When you came, it was sudden and overwhelming — Sukuna holding you tighter as your walls clenched around him, as if your body refused to let him go. He bit down on your neck, gently, moaning your name into your skin as he spilled into you, hips grinding in long, needy pulses. After, you stayed there, wrapped in his arms, your back against his chest, his nose brushing your wet hair. He didn’t speak. Just held you. Because no matter how old he became, no matter how many hearts he crushed underfoot in his life… You were the only thing he ever wanted to hold gently.

NEXT

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[suku-enthusiasts]

so if anyone hasn't noticed yet, I love studio ghibli movies, I watch them nearly every day especially while writing bc they are soft, and good background noise. but I can sit down for hours and watch them. well I decided yesterday as my wife was making homemade pot roast, to watch Grave of the fireflies for the first time, and I swear to whatever god is out there, I refuse to ever watch it again. I sobbed an hour while watching it, and a whole hour after, and then today as im on TikTok, it popped up and I started sobbing AGAIN. same with the yaoi manga "a home far away" I refuse to ever read that one ever again. moral of the story, I am now writing a sad fanfic bc im hormonal and that movie ruined my weekend, so thanks studio ghibli

[suku-enthusiasts]

chapter ten || zenin problems - r. sukuna

❛ ❜ Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader (on going)

❝A thousand years after tragedy tore them apart, the immortal wife of Ryomen Sukuna lives in hiding with their cursed-born son. When Sukuna is resurrected in modern-day Tokyo, long-buried love reignites—along with ancient power, vengeance, and divine destiny. As their family reunites under the shadow of Jujutsu High, they must navigate past sins, present tensions, and the fragile future growing inside her. A dark romance of eternal love, reincarnation, and the monster who would burn the world to keep his queen.❞

word count; 7.5k

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety. death. graphic scenes

main masterlist | series masterlist | previous

The afternoon sun was gentle as it filtered through the canopy above the training grounds, golden light spilling across the stone path as you made your way through the lush grounds of Jujutsu High. You wore a soft cream robe cinched at the waist, your long brown curls pinned loosely, your green eyes scanning the fields where your son and husband were currently training the students. The sound of feet pounding against earth, the clang of weapons, and bursts of cursed energy rippled across the air. It was almost rhythmic, even beautiful in its controlled chaos.

You stood quietly along the edge, watching. Renjiro was poised, confident, calling out instructions as Panda and Maki took turns sparring under his gaze. He looked so at home, tall and calm, radiating strength that had been forged across centuries. Sukuna stood further back, arms crossed, eyes flickering with interest and mild disdain, occasionally calling out dry remarks that made even Yuuji snort mid-swing. Yuuji had just approached you minutes before, smiling brightly. “So, you’re Renjiro’s mom?” he asked with an easy warmth that disarmed instantly. “And… Sukuna’s wife?” You smiled softly. “Yes, I am. You must be Yuuji. It’s… nice to meet you.” His grin widened, even as he scratched the back of his head awkwardly. “Sorry for, uh, everything that happened. Back then. With him inside me. It wasn’t personal.” You gave a quiet laugh. “I know it wasn’t.” The moment was light. For a breath, it felt normal.

Until it wasn’t.

The cursed energy shifted — not from the students, not from Sukuna — but from behind you. A low, arrogant hum of malice approached. You turned just slightly, a sinking weight curling into your stomach the moment you laid eyes on the man approaching from the Kyoto division.

Naoya Zenin.

You knew his reputation. Proud. Cruel. Arrogant. A man who saw women as less and power as everything. His smile was a blade as he approached, hands tucked into the sleeves of his uniform, eyes raking over your figure with thinly veiled contempt. “Well,” he drawled, “so the rumors are true. The King of Curses did take himself a bride. And here I thought it was just some poor wench who spread her legs for power.” The words hit like a slap, but your spine straightened, mouth opening to respond, he didn’t let you. “Looks like he bred you, too,” Naoya sneered, eyes flicking toward Renjiro. “You must be proud. Whore of a king, mother of a bastard. What a legacy.” The training grounds fell deathly silent. The cursed energy behind you exploded. You barely turned before you felt it — the raw, ancient, seething storm that was your husband’s power unleashing without restraint. Sukuna’s four arms cracked outward from his sides, markings across his body glowing with fury, eyes blood-red and glowing like hellfire. The air itself shook, heat and rage burning in waves from his body. The students stumbled back, shielding themselves instinctively. Even seasoned sorcerers nearby were rocked on their heels.

Renjiro’s shout was drowned out by the roar of cursed energy, Sukuna was on him in a flash. Naoya didn’t even flinch — cocky to the last — a smirk curling his lip as if he expected it. But the rest of them didn’t. Satoru slammed into Sukuna’s path, barrier up, teeth clenched as he met the full brunt of Sukuna’s killing intent. “Don’t,” he barked, breath strained. “Don’t you fucking do it, Sukuna!” Principal Yaga, Nanami, Renjiro, and even Kusakabe leapt into action, forming a circle to intercept. But they were thrown back, hard — each one nearly electrocuted by the sheer force of Sukuna’s wrath. Only Satoru remained standing, though his hands trembled, face tense, lips drawn tight.

“SUKUNA!” you screamed, but he didn’t hear, or wouldn’t. He was snarling now, the sound more beast than man. “I’ll skin you alive,” he spat at Naoya, eyes wide, teeth bared. “I’ll paint these fucking grounds with your insides, you arrogant little worm.” Naoya chuckled. Chuckled. “Did I strike a nerve, Your Majesty?” he taunted. “I wonder how many other villages you burned for their women. Or was she just your favorite?”

“SHUT UP!” you sobbed, stumbling forward, “Sukuna, please—!” Your voice cracked, torn from your throat as you threw yourself in front of him.

He didn’t see you, or maybe he couldn’t. The cursed energy meant for Naoya surged forward — and it struck you. You were thrown back like a ragdoll, hitting the ground hard, breath knocked from your lungs.

The silence was instant, and then… Sukuna froze. You gasped, writhing on the ground, tears slipping down your cheeks. Pain radiated through your ribs, your shoulder — not deadly, not broken — but jarring enough to send panic into Sukuna’s chest. His fury evaporated into shock, you’d never seen him like that — all his chaos drawn tight, energy pulling inward as he rushed to you. “My love—no, no—” he dropped to his knees, hands trembling as they hovered over your body, as if afraid he’d break you again. “I didn’t—fuck—I didn’t mean—”

“Suku,” you breathed, reaching up to touch his face, eyes glistening with pain. “You have to stop. Please…” He broke. The King of Curses bowed his head to your chest and shook, clutching you like something fragile and sacred. “I’ll kill him,” he whispered, voice hoarse and wrecked. “But not now. Not now.” Your arms wrapped around him weakly, holding his head close as Satoru stepped forward, quietly signaling the others to back off.

Naoya, of course, said nothing else. Because this time… he knew he almost died, and maybe next time, Sukuna wouldn’t stop. Not even for you.

Your breathing was shallow, chest trembling as your fingers clung weakly to Sukuna’s robes. His hands, four of them, moved quickly—tenderly—gliding over your body in synchronized rhythm, releasing that ancient, divine cursed energy with a whisper. It hummed low, golden and red and hot against your skin, sinking deep. He muttered words in a tongue forgotten by most, curses strung together with devotion, and pain bled from your body like smoke in the wind. The bruises faded first. Then the ache in your ribs. Your bones realigned, your breath no longer caught in your lungs.

“Stay with me,” Sukuna whispered, voice hoarse, his eyes darting across your face, searching. “My love. Don’t fall asleep yet. Let me carry you.”

You barely managed to nod, the pull of sleep already thick behind your lashes. Sukuna gathered you into his arms, tucking your head beneath his chin as he stood. His long stride carried you across the training grounds in silence—no one dared speak. Even Gojo stood still, lips drawn in a grim line. The moment Sukuna stepped inside your cottage, he kicked the door closed with the heel of his foot, barely sparing a glance at the two men who trailed behind him. His focus was solely on you. Your eyes fluttered open for a moment, dazed. “Suku…”

“I’ve got you,” he said, voice ragged, a kiss pressed to your forehead. “Rest, my love.” He laid you down gently on the wide futon, adjusting the blankets over you as his hands smoothed your hair back from your damp face. You were already fading, the warmth of his RCT lulling you into sleep. A tear slipped down your cheek, and he wiped it away with the softest touch of his thumb. Then he turned, Gojo was already leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Renjiro stood beside him, shoulders tense, eyes still ablaze. “I should’ve let it happen,” Sukuna growled, all tenderness gone from his voice. “He should be dead.”

“You almost made a crater in the damn training field,” Gojo replied flatly, though his tone wasn’t mocking. He ran a hand down his face, sighing. “You nearly electrocuted five sorcerers, Sukuna. One of them being me.”

“And?” Gojo stepped forward, blue eyes flashing. “I’m not here to lecture you about your wife. I’d probably have done the same. But if you do that again—if you make a move like that in public—you won’t get another warning. Not even from me.” A pause. “Do you think I can get the higher-ups to lift a second execution?” Sukuna’s silence was a promise and a threat. “You’ve got a home now. Her. Him,” Gojo added, jerking his chin toward Renjiro. “So figure out a better way to protect them that doesn’t involve ripping someone’s spine out in broad daylight.” From behind him, Renjiro’s voice came—sharp, cracking with rage.

“So Naoya gets to walk away?” he snapped, fists clenched at his sides. “He degraded my mother. He threatened her. And everyone just watches while he sneers and disappears like nothing happened?” Satoru turned, meeting Renjiro’s blazing eyes. “There are channels, Renjiro. I’ve already reported it—”

“He won’t face anything!” Renjiro shouted. His cursed energy flared hard, nearly pushing the air from the room. “He’s a Zenin. He’ll weasel out. He’ll go back to Kyoto with a smug look and no fucking consequences!” The black markings on his face pulsed, his breathing uneven as power radiated from him in waves. For a moment, Sukuna and his son stood as mirrored images—cursed energy snarling, shoulders broad, fists ready to rend flesh from bone. Renjiro’s voice dropped low, venomous. “You think I’ll let that slide just because I wear your uniform now?” Gojo didn’t answer right away. Instead, he slowly walked up to Renjiro and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m not asking you to forgive it. I’m asking you not to lose your future over it.” Renjiro wrenched away, jaw clenched, and then, finally, he turned toward the futon. Toward you—sound asleep, your face soft in the candlelight, one of Sukuna’s large hands resting protectively on your hip. All the rage in Renjiro’s chest collapsed into something deeper.

Something raw.

And he exhaled.

“I just want her to be safe,” he whispered, voice catching. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” Sukuna looked up at his son—something fierce and ancient in his eyes. “She will be.”

He meant it.

And no one in the room doubted that.

Not anymore, not after today.

That week passed like smoke through a sieve—there and gone before you could hold any of it. Days stretched long and hollow inside the cottage, where the once-comforting silence had soured into something unbearable. The bed still smelled like him. The air still felt heavy with his cursed energy. But Sukuna was gone. Mission after mission, Satoru had said. "Might as well channel that rage into something useful," he’d muttered to Renjiro with a shrug, as if sending the King of Curses out into the world like a weapon on a leash was a wise solution. Sukuna hadn’t argued. He’d taken the assignments without so much as a glance in your direction, stalking out of the cottage with a blade strapped to his back and fury burning in his chest, and he hadn’t looked back. Renjiro stayed behind. He trained the students during the day, his strength and sharp instincts making him a natural instructor, even though he found little joy in it. At night, he watched over you—quietly, gently, respectfully. He didn’t force you to talk. He didn’t press when your eyes stayed downcast. But he noticed everything.

He noticed how you only spoke when someone asked you something directly. He noticed how your eyes were always rimmed red, how your voice trembled no matter how calm you tried to sound. How sometimes your hands would shake while pouring tea or folding laundry, how your shoulders flinched at loud sounds—even though you always denied it. Renjiro knew his father hadn’t meant to hurt you. He’d seen it. Seen the way Sukuna’s power had swelled with the instinct to protect you, only to lash out with no aim. That force wasn’t meant for you. But it had still found you. And worst of all—it had changed him. Since that moment, Sukuna hadn’t touched you. Hadn’t held you. Hadn’t kissed you goodnight, or whispered one of his vulgar, loving promises into your ear. The hands that once couldn’t stay off your skin now stayed clenched at his sides. The eyes that used to follow your every movement now looked everywhere else. He couldn’t bear to face what he’d done—even if it had been an accident, and you… you were left hollow with the absence.

You didn’t blame him. Not really. You knew he hadn’t meant to hurt you. But the distance hurt more than the blow itself. Sukuna had always been rough, wild, powerful—but he had never turned away from you. Not until now. You cried alone now, behind the closed doors of the bath, in the quiet hours of night. You wept into your sleeves, afraid that if you didn’t let the tears fall in silence, they’d never stop. You missed him—his voice, his warmth, his weight in the bed beside you.

You missed your husband.

Renjiro came home one evening to find you staring blankly out the window, a half-folded blanket in your lap. The garden outside had begun to wither without your attention. It used to bloom under your care. Now, it looked as tired as you. He walked up to you slowly, crouching beside the seat. “Mama…” he said softly. “You know it wasn’t your fault, right?” You blinked, the blanket slipping from your fingers. Your voice was barely above a whisper. “I know. But I think he’s punishing himself. And I don’t know how to reach him.” Renjiro swallowed, placing a hand gently on your knee. “Then I’ll bring him home.” You looked down at him, tears silently spilling from your lashes. “Promise me he’s okay.” Renjiro nodded. “He’s not okay. But I will bring him back to you.” And with that, he stood—his figure strong, tall, echoing the same protective presence Sukuna once had. But in his eyes was your softness. The same fierce loyalty that had once saved the both of you a thousand years ago.

The battlefield was nothing but red and ruin. Slabs of stone torn from the earth. Trees uprooted and scorched. A river of cursed blood soaked into the dirt where no curse should’ve even been able to bleed. Sukuna stood at the center of it all—bare-chested, panting, his four arms coated in blood and viscera, the jagged corners of his mouth twitching with fury. His eyes burned, twin infernos of unrelenting rage and shame. It wasn’t the curses. They were pathetic. Weak. Barely worth the swing of a blade, much less the full force of his wrath. He could’ve decimated them without lifting a finger, and still he chose to destroy them with his hands.

He tore them apart piece by piece. Clawed through flesh. Shattered bones. Ripped heads from shoulders with his bare grip just to feel something snap. His cursed energy howled through the valley like a storm no god could silence. It scorched everything. But none of it helped, not the power, not the blood, not the screams of the dying. None of it erased the image burned into his skull—you, lying on the ground, his power having touched you.

You, flinching when he came near. You, sobbing and begging for him to stay, only for his fury to overflow and hurt you instead. He hadn't meant to push you. That force, that energy—it wasn’t meant for you. But that didn’t change the fact that it hit you. And that it left a bruise. That your body slumped down from the impact like you had been struck by any other monster. He was the King of Curses. He’d made nations kneel. Toppled empires. Torn apart armies, but the only thing that had ever truly mattered in his cursed, bloodstained life... was afraid of him.

He hadn't been back home in five days. He couldn’t bear to see you look at him like that again. Sukuna’s fist slammed into the cracked ground beneath him with a thunderous crack, splitting the earth several feet in every direction. His teeth grit, grinding hard enough to splinter bone if it weren’t for the sheer unnatural strength of his cursed form. A low growl built in his throat, but it died before it could escape, swallowed by the silence of the now-empty forest. “Still not enough,” he muttered bitterly. “You done throwing your tantrum?” The voice behind him was calm, clipped, and all too familiar. Sukuna didn’t turn right away. His upper arms lowered, but his lower set remained curled into tight fists at his sides.

“Renjiro,” he said, voice a low rumble. “Should’ve known you’d track me.” Renjiro stood on the ledge above, arms crossed, the fading sun casting shadows across his face. His cursed markings pulsed faintly with his energy, and his stare was sharp and unreadable. For a long beat, he said nothing. Just watched.

“I didn’t track you,” he said at last. “You leave a trail of annihilation wherever you go. It wasn’t hard.” Sukuna scoffed. “Then why are you here, boy?” Renjiro dropped down into the clearing with the grace of a predator, landing silently among the wreckage. He walked slowly toward his father, stepping around splintered bodies and scattered entrails like they were nothing but debris. “To drag your ass back home.” That made Sukuna turn. His expression was dangerous, furious—but behind all that, there was something else. Something hollow and tired. “She doesn’t want me,” Sukuna said flatly. “She’s terrified of me. She should be.”

“She’s terrified of losing you,” Renjiro snapped. “And you know that. Don’t stand here covered in guts pretending you’re doing this for her.” Sukuna’s jaw clenched. “I pushed her down.”

“You didn’t mean to,” Renjiro shot back. “And she knows it.”

“I still did it.” There was a pause. Then, softer—almost too soft for someone as large and brutal as him: “I saw her lying there. I saw the bruise. I saw her tears. And I hated myself more than I ever thought I could.” Renjiro exhaled, stepping closer until he stood just a few feet away from the man who had once cradled him as a baby. Who had kissed his forehead before going off to war. Who had taught him how to hold a sword before he could speak full sentences.

“She’s crying every night,” Renjiro said. “Not because you hit her. But because you left.” Sukuna’s fists uncurled slightly. His shoulders dropped just a bit. The fire in his eyes dimmed—but it didn’t go out. “She thinks you don’t want to be near her anymore.” Sukuna finally looked at him. “And what do you think?” Renjiro held his gaze. “I think you're being a coward.” For a moment, the air between them grew heavy. Tense. Then, slowly, Sukuna’s mouth twitched—just barely—into something almost like a grin. “Like mother, like son,” he muttered. “Always knew you’d be a pain in my ass.” Renjiro smirked. “Then stop acting like an ass, and come home.” Sukuna stared at him for a long, long moment. Then he glanced at the sky—red and violet in the twilight—and exhaled. “Fine,” he murmured, wiping blood from his knuckles. “But I’m not apologizing for leaving.”

“You don’t have to,” Renjiro said, already turning. “Just go to her.” And this time, Sukuna followed.

The cottage was quiet when he arrived. No flickering cursed energy. No lights. Just the soft chirp of crickets outside and the faint scent of jasmine lingering in the summer air. Sukuna stood at the threshold for a long while, towering and still, his shadow cast against the door like a storm waiting to break. He could hear you inside. Moving faintly. Breathing. Living. It made his throat ache. With a creak of wood and a push of his hand, the door opened. His bare feet stepped in slow, quiet—unnatural for a man who usually moved like thunder. The space was dim, lit only by the moonlight streaming in from the open window. You were sitting on the couch, curled up in one of his robes, your hands resting still in your lap.

When you looked up, your eyes met his—and his entire chest clenched.

You looked so tired. Soft. Sad. Fragile in a way you never used to be. It gutted him. Neither of you spoke for several seconds. The only sound was the faint ticking of the clock and the gentle thrum of his cursed energy low in the floorboards, and then, quietly, you said, “You came home.”

He moved slowly. Like a predator unsure of his footing. Like a man standing at the edge of a battlefield he couldn’t fight his way through.

“I shouldn’t have left,” he said. His voice was gruff, low—but trembling underneath. You didn’t answer, he crossed the room and knelt in front of you, all four hands moving with a reverence that seemed almost unlike him. He lowered his head until it rested against your stomach, his eyes closed. One set of hands wrapped around your waist; the other caressed your back, trailing along the curves of your body like you might vanish if he stopped touching you, your breath caught. “I’ve killed thousands,” he muttered, face still pressed to you. “Made warlords weep. Cities fall. But I’ve never hated myself like I did when I saw you hit the ground.” You felt the tremor in his voice—not fear, but guilt. Real guilt. The kind that stripped even the strongest of men bare. You said nothing. Your fingers simply slipped into his hair, long and silken, and you began to comb through it gently. He melted into your touch like a wounded beast finally allowed to rest.

“I didn’t mean it,” he rasped. “You know that, don’t you, my love?” You nodded, your throat too tight to speak. “I lost control. Because that bastard insulted you. Because he touched you with his words. And I… I let that anger hurt you instead.” He pressed a kiss to your belly—just above your navel—and then another, and another, worshipful and apologetic, hands trembling slightly as they held you. “I was ashamed,” he admitted. “And I thought… maybe you’d be better if I left. Maybe you were afraid of me. Maybe I’d ruined the one good thing I’d ever had.” You swallowed hard, tears forming again as you looked down at him—this terrifying, ancient, powerful man kneeling at your feet, cradling you like you were the only thing tethering him to the world. “You didn’t ruin anything,” you whispered. “But you did break my heart when you left.” He let out a low noise—almost a whimper—and his grip on you tightened. “I’m here now,” he murmured. “And I’ll never fucking leave again.” Your hands cupped his cheeks, lifting his face so you could see him clearly—those red eyes filled with something raw and broken and vulnerable. And then you leaned down, pressing your forehead to his.

“I missed you,” you said softly, he nodded. “I missed you.” And then, in a voice hoarse and quiet: “I’m sorry.” You kissed him. He didn’t deserve it, not yet, not truly. But you kissed him anyway.

The morning sun was warm and golden when Renjiro arrived at the cottage, his hair still damp from training and his shirt clinging to his back. He stepped up onto the porch just as you opened the door, waving him inside with a small smile and a promise of tea. Sukuna, freshly bathed and half-naked as always, was lounging cross-legged on the floor with his arms crossed, clearly still grumpy from your very vocal “lesson” earlier that morning. You had threatened him. Very sweetly. “If you break another phone, Sukuna,” you had said, poking his chest with your finger, “I will personally kill you, and then revive you just so I can kill you again.” Renjiro snorted as he stepped into the room, sensing his father’s rising annoyance like a storm cloud. “What did you do now?” he asked casually, sitting down at the table and helping himself to one of the mochi from the tray. “He refuses,” you said, emerging from the back room with a small, sleek black box in hand, “to adapt.” Sukuna’s eyes narrowed at the object as if it might bite him. “What the hell is that?”

“It’s a phone,” you said patiently, holding it up like you were revealing a sacred relic. “A smart one. Touch screen. You’re going to use it.” Sukuna looked at you. Then at Renjiro. Then back at the phone. “You expect me to touch that cursed tool?” Renjiro was already laughing. You rolled your eyes and sat beside him, unlocking the phone and tilting it toward Sukuna. “I’ve already programmed your name into it. You just need to learn how to answer a call, send texts, and maybe take a photo. Basic things.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“You are.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

You both stared at each other.

Renjiro casually slid further down the bench, sipping his tea and enjoying the showdown. You reached over and placed the phone in Sukuna’s enormous palm. “Try it.” He held it like it was an unexploded bomb. You showed him how to swipe and tap. He grumbled. He growled. He kept pressing the wrong buttons. When the screen rotated, he almost threw the phone. You smacked his wrist and told him to try again. After thirty agonizing minutes, he successfully sent a text message.

To you.

It said:

“Woman. I am hungry.” You stared at it, then looked up slowly. “That is your idea of a text?”

“I am not rewriting a fucking scroll. You said short messages.” He snorted. “Sending letters through this tiny glass box. Utterly stupid.” Renjiro couldn’t hold it in anymore. “Oh my god,” he cackled, doubling over. “Sending letters? Sukuna, it’s texting.”

“They are letters,” Sukuna snapped, pointing to the screen. “I am composing a message. Just because you also grew up in an era with floating glass mirrors and cursed tools doesn’t mean I have.” You sighed. “Okay. Let’s try the camera now—” Sukuna cut you off. “You said this damn thing can make paintings.” You held back your laugh. “It’s called a photo.”

“It steals your soul and traps it inside.” Renjiro gasped, hand over his heart. “Father, no. You’ve been watching too much of that TV thing again—”

“I saw what happened when you pointed this tool at yourself and the flash blinded you,” Sukuna muttered. “That was clearly cursed. It’s sorcery. Don’t lie to me.” You set the phone on selfie mode and pointed it toward you both. Sukuna scowled immediately, trying to shove it away. But you snapped the photo quickly and showed it to him. He blinked at the image. A little grainy. You smiling like a goddess. Him… frowning like an ogre. But the photo was oddly sweet.

“That’s a painting,” he finally grunted, “It’s a photo.”

“A fast painting.” Renjiro laughed again, tossing another mochi in his mouth. “This is so embarrassing. You’re like a grandpa who yells at the TV.”

“I am over a thousand years old, fool.” You leaned against Sukuna, gently nudging his side. “So are we, but you’ll get used to it, my love.” He huffed and crossed all four arms. “And if I don’t?” You kissed his cheek. “Then I’ll teach you again. Every day. Until you do.” Renjiro mumbled, “That’s the power of love,” under his breath, only to receive one of his father’s deadly glares. But even then, Sukuna didn’t throw the phone again. He held onto it, and he kept the first photo of you both—even if he called it a painting.

Sukuna was gone before sunrise, summoned for another special grade mission that required his raw power and complete indifference to destruction. He hadn’t grumbled about it much—only because you’d promised to reward him with something sweet when he returned. His words, not yours. Still, the cottage felt too quiet without the sound of his heavy footsteps or his sharp tongue grumbling about how soft the world had become. You missed him already. You had been lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, before finally grabbing your phone and texting him:

“Be careful, my love. I miss you already.”

No reply. You waited. Ten minutes. Then twenty. You sent another:

“I’m making your favorite tonight. Hurry home to me, please.”

Still nothing. You sighed and tossed the phone onto the bed, stretching out with a pout. “Stubborn man,” you muttered, pulling the pillow closer.

Just as you were about to give up, the phone vibrated. Your heart skipped. You picked it up quickly—and then… blinked. It was a photo. A blurry, crooked, dimly lit selfie of Sukuna. His face taking up most of the frame, his brow furrowed like he was trying to figure out the meaning of life, or maybe the meaning of the camera. Behind him, you could make out a demolished building and what looked like a flaming tree. Then another photo came in. This time, the camera had caught his chest—bare, smeared with something that definitely wasn’t paint—and one of his four hands holding up what looked like a broken cursed tool. In the corner, you could faintly see the foot of a very dead special grade curse, and then a third image. A blurry close-up of just his eye. Red. Burning. Unamused. After that, a message finally came through.

“i will not send these tiny letters. i will send paintings. that is all.” You stared at the screen, half laughing, half sighing, your heart warm despite yourself. Another image came in, it was a picture of a tree—the one outside your cottage, the one you had both planted herbs around last week. The lighting was awful. He had no idea how to focus. But somehow, it made your chest ache. “this tree reminded me of you. it is beautiful. and slightly crooked.” You laughed out loud, and then your phone buzzed again.

“miss u.” You covered your face with your hands, smiling like a fool. Of course, he had to be dramatic even when being sweet. You replied:

“That was a text. You just sent letters.” He responded with another photo, it was of his middle finger, you melted anyway.

It was late when the door creaked open. You looked up from the couch, blinking away sleep, your fingers still clutching the book you hadn’t been reading for the last hour. You’d been waiting, curled under a soft blanket in one of Sukuna’s oversized robes, surrounded by the dim golden light of the lamps. The moment your eyes met his—tall, bloodstained, powerful—you exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. He stepped inside, shutting the door with one of his larger hands, and you watched as he rolled his neck with a grunt. His black robe hung open slightly, showing the lines of his chest, smeared with the evidence of a mission that probably hadn’t challenged him at all. But there was something different in his eyes—warmer. Tired, but softened. His crimson gaze lingered on you for more than a moment, like he was drinking you in after being starved of your presence. You stood slowly, walking to him, and without a word, his arms were around you. All four of them. Wrapping, cradling, gripping—not hard, not rough, but firm and possessive. He buried his face in your neck, inhaling deeply, and you felt the hum of his groan against your throat.

“I missed you,” you whispered, your hands moving over the planes of his back. He grunted, lifting you gently and walking toward the bedroom, his steps heavy and full of purpose. He tossed his weapons to the floor and kicked the door closed behind him. You tugged at his robe as he laid you on the bed, the fabric slipping from his shoulders. You knew what he wanted—you’d planned to give it to him the moment he returned. You slipped down, placing a kiss to his stomach, and then looked up at him with heated eyes, your hands already running over the waistband of his pants. But before you could go further, he growled low in his throat and asked, voice slightly hoarse:

“Can I take a painting of you first?” You froze. Your face flared red instantly, blood rushing to your ears. “W-What?” He didn’t repeat himself—just reached over to the nightstand where you’d left his new phone, the cursed object he claimed to loathe. “I want one,” he said simply, thumb already clumsily tapping the screen. “You. Like this. On your knees for me. I want to look at it when I’m away.” Your jaw dropped, and your hands flew to your burning cheeks. “Sukuna!” He smirked, shameless. “What? It’s mine to look at. All of you is mine.” You buried your face in your hands, your voice muffled. “You just learned how to use the phone. You can’t already be this perverted with it.”

“Of course I can,” he said proudly, as if it were some divine accomplishment. “Now take your hands off your face and smile for me, my love.” You glared at him—but you were blushing too much for it to hold weight. He was already crouched down, holding the phone up at a flattering angle like he was ready to immortalize you in all your shy, flushed glory. “I hate you,” you muttered into your hands, he laughed, low and fond. “No, you don’t. You love me. Now open that pretty mouth.” You dropped your hands, cheeks glowing like embers, and you did.

You swallowed hard as Sukuna slowly lowered himself fully onto the bed, his eyes darkening with hunger. The phone was still in his hand—your cursed new reality—yet it felt far more intimate than you expected. He looked positively sinful, the glow from the screen casting shadows on his sharp cheekbones and down the ridges of his chest, still bare and warm from battle. "Say something," you murmured as you trailed your fingers up his thighs, trying to compose yourself through your flustered nerves. He scoffed softly, tilting the phone in his palm like he was already lining up the perfect angle. “Why? So you can get more embarrassed? I think I like watching you squirm.”

“Pervert,” you whispered—but your voice was breathless. He grinned and reached out with one of his hands, the other still holding the phone. His fingers tilted your chin up, eyes locked to yours. “And you’re beautiful.” Then he moved the phone slightly forward, steady now. The lens captured the moment you leaned closer, your lips brushing along the underside of his cock through his pants. He hissed, hips twitching at the contact, and you felt him swell further beneath the fabric. “Take them off,” you said quietly, and he obeyed, the eagerness in his hands betraying the smug, relaxed expression on his face. He pushed his clothing down just enough, his cock springing free—already hard, veined, flushed at the tip, the weight of it resting against his abdomen.

The phone flashed once, you glanced up at him with heat burning in your cheeks. “Did you just take a picture?” He growled, tilting the screen to show you. The image was raw—your fingers curled delicately around his base, your mouth just barely parted above him. “You’re divine,” he murmured, voice low, reverent. “The world should thank me for not sharing this.” Then, something shifted. He tapped something clumsily and frowned. “Wait... what the hell is this? Why is it... moving?” You blinked. “You pressed record.” He looked between the screen and your mouth hovering over him, realization dawning as a wicked smile curved his lips. “So I can... keep a painting that moves?” Your heart fluttered. “It’s a video.” He exhaled slowly, nostrils flaring. “Keep going.” The command sent a jolt of heat between your legs.

You lowered your head, pressing a gentle kiss to the tip, your tongue flicking out to taste him. He groaned—loud, guttural—and the phone in his hand trembled for a second before he steadied it again, aiming it perfectly. You took him into your mouth slowly, swirling your tongue as your lips wrapped around him, inch by inch. His breath caught. The way he looked down at you, his hand petting your head in slow strokes, only made you want to please him more. His thighs tensed under your palms. “Fuck—” he rasped, one hand curling tightly into the sheets while the other kept recording. “Look at you. Mouth made for me.” You hollowed your cheeks, sucking deeper, bobbing your head while your hand gripped his base, and he groaned like he was losing himself in it. His eyes fluttered shut, only to snap open again so he could keep watching you—the real you, and the image on the screen. “I don’t think I can ever let you out of this bed again,” he murmured, licking his lips as if tasting the memory already. “You’re going to ruin me.” You pulled back slightly, teasing the head with your tongue, your gaze flickering up through your lashes. “Then let me.”

He growled, the sound primal, raw. You sank down again, deeper this time, until you felt him hit the back of your throat. He cursed, hips jerking slightly, and his breath stuttered. You reached for his hand—the one holding the phone—and gently guided it downward, angling the lens so it saw exactly what he was feeling. “Fuck, fuck—” His voice cracked. “This cursed thing just became my favorite tool.” You giggled around him, and the vibration made him groan louder. He was close—you could feel it, the way he throbbed on your tongue, the way his muscles tightened. His hand cradled the back of your head now, guiding you in gentle, reverent movements. “Such a good girl,” he panted. “Mine. Only mine.”

Moments later, he spilled into your mouth with a broken, satisfied snarl, the phone dropping beside him as his hands gripped your hair and shoulder, anchoring himself. You swallowed, your lips still wrapped around him, gently coaxing him through it until his thighs finally relaxed.

You pulled away, wiping the corner of your mouth as he looked at you like he might devour you again. He picked up the phone slowly, tapping the screen, his expression dark with post-release bliss. He looked at the video with a satisfied smirk. “I will be watching this... frequently.” You rolled your eyes, laughing breathlessly. “Just don’t break the phone this time.” He tilted his head. “Why would I break a treasure?” Then he leaned forward, one massive hand on your cheek, and kissed you so deeply, you nearly forgot how to breathe.

From that moment on, there was no going back. Every time Sukuna touched you—kissed you, spread you open, sank into you like he was claiming you all over again—he reached for that phone. It became as natural as his breath. You’d barely be pulling your robe off, nipples peeking from silk and breath already catching in your throat, before the faint sound of the camera chime echoed through the room. The cursed little device was practically his fifth hand now, always within reach. "Raise your hips," he’d command in that low, husky voice, one hand steadying the camera while the other gripped your thigh, pulling you wider open. The screen glowed with heat as he angled it down toward your soaked cunt, catching the way you clenched around his thick cock, sucking him in over and over. He groaned when he watched the playback, sometimes pausing mid-thrust just to press the screen to your lips, forcing you to watch it with him.

“Look at how you take me,” he growled one night, sweat clinging to his neck, his cock buried deep inside you as the video looped beside your head. “You’re obscene, my love. Filthy. Addicted.” And yet, he said it like a vow. You’d hide your face, burying it against his chest or the sheets, red-faced and whining when the camera flash went off just as your breasts bounced beneath him, your nipples stiff and flushed, your face slack with pleasure. He’d capture the tremble of your thighs when you came, the stretch of your lips around his cock, the aftermath of your release dripping down your legs. Sukuna was vulgar, unapologetically so—but only for you. He never once looked at another soul with the hunger he reserved for you. And when he wasn’t recording you, he was watching you. Obsessively. Possessively. Worshipfully.

Some nights, after he’d fucked you breathless and left you limp against his chest, he’d cradle your body while scrolling through his “paintings.” You’d be half-asleep, only to stir when you felt the rumble of his chest as he chuckled. “This one,” he said once, tapping the screen. “You were trying to tell me no... but your cunt kept saying yes.” You swatted his arm, groaning and hiding your face. “You’re horrible.”

“I’m yours,” he corrected, flipping the video around to show you your flushed face—tears in your lashes, mouth open, moaning his name while you rode him slow and needy. “And this… is mine.” And he meant it. Every part of you—your body, your soul, the sounds you made, the way you blushed when he spread your thighs and pressed record again—all of it, all of you, belonged to him. Your vulgar, warlord husband. The man who ruined you, adored you, and filmed it all like he was building a shrine to your pleasure, and you, still blushing and breathless each time, let him.

You hadn’t noticed it at first. Sukuna had grown shockingly efficient with his cursed little “painting device,” as he still sometimes called it—though now it was less with disdain and more with reluctant reverence. He had learned to charge it, scroll, zoom in on the filthiest angles, even replay videos with frightening precision. But this… this you were not prepared for. You were sitting beside him on the veranda that morning, sipping tea, your legs curled beneath you in a soft robe as birds chirped lazily beyond the garden. He reached for his phone with a grunt, the muscles in his tattooed forearms flexing as he checked the time, and then you saw it. The screen lit up with a vivid, unmistakable image: your plush, thick ass in a sheer, cheeky pair of pale panties—barely covering anything, the curve of your softness nearly swallowing the fabric whole—and his mouth biting into one of your cheeks, eyes locked with the camera like a feral animal claiming his prey. Your breath caught in your throat.

“Sukuna,” you whispered, voice sharp as your eyes bulged, snatching the phone from his massive hand. “What the hell is this?” He didn’t even look guilty. In fact, he looked smug, eyes glittering with mischief as he sipped his tea. “My painting,” he said simply, licking a stray drop from his lip. “It’s a masterpiece, if you ask me.” You stared at the photo in horror—your body on full display, the pink stretch of your panties pulled tight, his teeth sunk into your ass, his four hands greedily clutching your hips like you were a meal. “This is your Lock Screen?!” you shrieked, “And Home Screen,” he added proudly, you nearly fainted. “Sukuna!” you hissed, clutching the phone to your chest like it might explode. “What if one of the students sees this?! What if Satoru or Kento walks by and sees—my ass? Your face in my ass?!” He barked a laugh, clearly amused by your panic. “Then they’ll know the truth. Their king is well fed.” You slapped his arm, heat flaring in your cheeks. “You are insane!”

“Insane for you,” he said lazily, voice like velvet laced with smoke, reaching to tug your robe down your shoulder. “Don’t act like you weren’t arching for the camera.”

“That was private!” Sukuna only shrugged, entirely unrepentant. “You’re the one who said I could take paintings.” You groaned, scrolling frantically through the settings. “You don’t even know how to change your Lock Screen. Who taught you this?” He leaned back smugly. “I watched Renjiro. He leaves his phone lying around. He swipes and taps like a little god.” You rolled your eyes, lips twitching. “So you’re telling me you’ve been secretly studying your son to learn how to immortalize my ass on your phone?”

“Correct.” You sighed dramatically, tapping and replacing the Lock Screen. “Okay, I’m keeping this on your Home Screen—because clearly you’ll just change it back—but I’m replacing the Lock Screen. Something respectable.” Sukuna narrowed his eyes. “Respectable is not what I seek.”

“Hush,” you said, selecting one of your favorites—a photo he had taken of you a few days ago, standing in the garden, sunlight in your curls, smiling like a warm breeze. He had told you that day that your smile made the flowers bloom. When you showed it to him, he blinked, surprised.

“…That one is acceptable,” he muttered after a moment. “But only because you look happy.” You smiled sweetly, handing the phone back. “There. Now, if your cursed device lights up around anyone but me, they’ll see that. Not my ass.”

“…So your ass is only for me now?” he teased, voice low, brushing his knuckles down your thigh, you leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Always has been.”

NEXT

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[suku-enthusiasts]

chapter twelve || present - s. geto

suguru geto x f!reader

❝She loved him through the storm—through the silence of hospital halls and the jagged weight of recovery. Suguru had once been her everything, her always. But healing reshaped him, softened his love into something quiet, unpromising. He no longer dreamed of vows. He no longer wished for children. And yet, there she stood—pregnant, unraveling, and alone in the spaces he left behind. Then came Hiromi. Steady. Patient. Unassuming. What began as co-parenting slowly bled into something gentler, something sacred. Through lullabies and court dates, aching laughter and late-night tenderness, a new kind of love was born—not loud or reckless, but steady as the earth. This is a story about losing the future you thought you’d have, and finding grace in the one you never imagined. About loving two men in different lifetimes of your heart—and the quiet, unshakable strength of choosing peace after pain.❞

word count ; 3.3k

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety. death. graphic scenes

series masterlist | next

The clouds had parted by the time you were wheeled out of the hospital, sunlight washing soft and golden over your skin. Sosuke was bundled gently in your arms, his sleepy little face nestled against your chest. Hiromi had kissed your temple before he left, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear and promising he’d be back as soon as he picked up Kaito and handled some quick paperwork. His hand lingered on yours just a moment longer than it needed to. “Text me if you need anything,” he’d said, voice soft, warm. “I mean it.” And then he was gone.

Your parents drove you home, the trunk packed with the hospital bags, flowers, diapers, and gifts. Suguru followed behind in his own car. He didn’t say a word as the cars pulled away from the hospital—his face was unreadable, his grip on the steering wheel pale-knuckled and tight.

The drive was quiet. Peaceful. The kind of quiet that holds weight but doesn’t press down, not yet. You watched the blur of spring trees from the window, the world passing by, knowing that everything had changed in the course of one long, exhausting, miraculous night. When the car finally pulled into your driveway, you felt that familiar swell in your throat—that bittersweet breath of being home. But home had changed. 

Your parents helped you inside, your body still sore, fragile, tired in ways you didn’t know were possible. Suguru lingered behind, slow steps, eyes flicking up toward the house like he didn’t know if he was allowed to enter and then he did. He stepped over the threshold and stopped short. His lips parted slightly, the house was different. Gone were the stark, minimal lines that used to mark your shared style. In their place: warm throw blankets over the couch, soft colors on the walls, a new bookshelf filled with picture books and pastel baskets, a bassinet near the window surrounded by soft hanging mobiles.

It looked lived in. Safe. Happy.

It looked like you.

His breath caught in his throat.

Your father helped you settle into bed—your old bed, the one you used to share with Suguru, now with new linens, plush and lavender-scented. You carefully adjusted Sosuke into his little wrap carrier, keeping him nestled against your chest while you laid back slowly, exhaustion clinging to your limbs. “I’ll make you some lunch,” your mom said from the doorway, already pushing her sleeves up. “Something light. And I’ll steep your tea.”

“Thank you, Mama,” you whispered. Your dad nodded and followed her down the hallway, casting one last look at Suguru, who remained frozen just inside the doorway, shoulders stiff, you looked up at him. “You can sit,” you said gently, voice hoarse. Suguru blinked, and then slowly moved to the chair beside your bed. His hands were tucked into the sleeves of his sweater, the collar slightly stretched from wear. He sat stiffly at first, eyes on Sosuke. The baby stirred lightly against your chest, a small sound—like a kitten mewling—and Suguru instinctively reached out to adjust the blanket around him, his fingers brushed yours by accident.

He flinched.

You didn’t.

“Do you want to hold him again?” you asked softly, not looking at him. “I… I don’t want to hurt him.”

“You won’t.” Still, he didn’t reach for him. Instead, he stayed near. Stayed present. When you had to get up to use the restroom, Suguru stood immediately, hands gently hovering until you passed Sosuke into his arms. He held him quietly, slowly swaying side to side, eyes fixed on the baby’s soft lashes, his tiny nose, his little clenched fists. He sat down with him, rocking ever so slightly in the chair, like his body remembered what it was like to be gentle. When you came back, Suguru wordlessly handed him back to you, watching as your fingers traced soothing circles over the baby’s back and then, for the first time since stepping into your house, Suguru’s voice broke the silence. “It’s beautiful in here,” he murmured, looking around. “It’s home,” you said, smiling faintly. “My parents helped make it feel like one again.” He nodded. “You deserve that.” You adjusted Sosuke in your arms. “So does he.” Suguru didn’t respond, but he didn’t leave either. He remained there in that chair, for the next few hours, offering his hand when you needed help standing, adjusting the pillows behind your back, pouring your water into a clean glass from the kitchen. 

His movements were quiet. Careful. His hands still trembled, but he didn’t run from it, he stayed and as Sosuke slept peacefully between you, unaware of the complicated weight in the room, you knew the real conversation—the one that needed to happen between you and Suguru—was coming.

The soft ticking of the living room clock filled the space as Sosuke slept in the bassinet beside your bed, his tiny body bundled in pale blue and cream. The air was warm, thick with the scent of your mother’s tea steeping in the kitchen and the lingering silence that settled between you and Suguru like dust on untouched memories. You sat propped up by pillows, still in your robe, your hair loosely pinned back. Suguru remained in the same chair beside you, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, hands laced tightly together like if he let go, he might fall apart.

His eyes weren’t on you.

They were on the hallway. On the memory of Hiromi, who had handed you water without hesitation. Who had wiped your brow when Suguru had stood frozen. Who had let you cling to him in the delivery room, whispering steady encouragement when Suguru had walked away and then, finally, Suguru asked. “Who is he?” His voice wasn’t cold—it was too brittle for that. “Hiromi.” You blinked, turning slightly to face him. “He’s a parent,” you said softly. “Kaito’s dad. His son’s in my class.” Suguru looked at his hands. “That doesn’t explain why he was there.” You took a long breath, heart tightening. “Because he stayed.” The words landed hard, Suguru swallowed and nodded slowly, once. “Are you… Are you with him?”

Your gaze dropped to your hands folded on your lap. “No.”

“But you care about him.” Silence. “I can see it,” he added, voice fraying. “In the way you smiled when he walked in the room. The way he looked at you.”

“And what if I do care about him?” you said softly, lifting your gaze to him. Your voice trembled—not with weakness, but with the exhaustion of being patient for too long. “Why does that matter?” Suguru stared at you, the lines around his eyes taut. “Because you just had a baby.” Your breath caught. Your fingers curled into the blanket at your waist, holding onto something tangible. “And what exactly do you think that means?” you asked, quieter now. “That I should just forget I’m a person? That I should wait around, hoping you’ll come back in the middle of the night like a ghost who misses what he abandoned?” His face twisted in guilt, but he said nothing. You looked at him fully now—really looked. His hair was longer, unkempt, his eyes tired and sunken. He looked older, heavier with everything he’d tried to carry alone. But he had chosen to be alone.

“I’m going to be an amazing mother,” you said, voice thickening with each word. “I already am. And I will raise our son with love and warmth and safety—everything I didn’t feel when you walked out on me.” Suguru’s lips parted, but you didn’t let him speak. “I spent the last two months wondering if I’d be doing this by myself. I cried so hard one night I nearly passed out on the nursery floor. And do you know who picked me up? My mother. Not you. And when my water broke, the man who helped me breathe through the pain wasn’t you. The man who held my hand and told me I was strong—who stood beside me when I screamed and bled and brought your son into the world—was Hiromi.” Suguru’s hands were shaking again, your voice broke then, raw and aching.

“So yes,” you whispered, “I have feelings for someone who has done nothing but be kind. Who stepped into a storm he didn’t cause and never once asked for anything in return. But the real question, Suguru…” you swallowed hard, blinking through the sting of tears, “…is what you want.”

He stared at you, expression unreadable. “Is this it?” you asked, quieter now. “Was this your goodbye again? Because if you’re not going to show up for him—for your son—then I need to know now. I won’t let him grow up wondering if his father is going to come back. I won’t let him ache the way I did.” Suguru’s jaw clenched. “I’m not asking you to choose me. I let go of that already,” you whispered. “But you need to choose if you’re going to be in your son’s life. Or if this—right here—is the last time either of us is going to see you.” The room was silent, the only sound was the soft, gentle breathing of the baby in the bassinet. Suguru’s eyes slowly moved to him. The smallest little bundle. His nose. Your mouth. His life and in Suguru’s silence… your heart broke a little more. Because the hardest part wasn’t him walking away again—it was the quiet moment before he made that choice and you still didn’t know which way he would go.

Suguru’s hands were trembling again, knuckles paling where he gripped his knees. He still hadn’t looked up at you, not fully—not since your words pierced the silence between you like glass breaking, but then, softly, he spoke. “I’ll stay,” he said hoarsely. “For Sosuke.” The name made something flicker in his eyes. A fragile kind of reverence. You could tell he had barely allowed himself to say it before now—like he was afraid it would break him open all over again, you nodded slowly. Quietly and then you breathed out, gaze steady. “Good.”

He looked up.

But the warmth he may have been hoping for… wasn’t there. You held his gaze, unwavering and you said it—soft, but certain: “But that’s all you stay for, Suguru.” His brows pulled slightly. His lips parted to speak, but you raised your hand gently. “No,” you said. “You don’t get to have me back.” His face twitched, subtle pain carving through him like a knife that had already been dulled with time and guilt. “I love you,” you admitted, voice soft, honest. “But I love you the way people love a memory. A song they used to cry to. The way you love something that shaped you—but doesn’t belong in your life anymore.” He blinked, chest rising with a sharp breath. “I was with you through the darkest part of your life. I helped carry you when you couldn’t stand. I held every jagged edge of your heart in my hands,” you whispered, voice thickening. “But that almost destroyed me.” His throat bobbed with a swallow. You looked toward the bassinet for a moment—toward your son. Then back at him.

“I don’t need a storm in my house again,” you said, your voice like silk wrapped around steel. “I need peace. My son needs peace.” Suguru’s hands fell slowly into his lap, his shoulders folding slightly inward. “If you come to see Sosuke… you’ll be welcome,” you continued. “But if you bring your pain, your chaos, your guilt—you leave it at the door. You bring only what is kind, and gentle, and present.” He looked like he might cry again. But he didn’t. His lashes lowered. He nodded, once and then again, slower. “Okay,” he whispered. The finality of it settled into the room like mist. Soft. Cold. Lingering.

You didn’t hate him. You never had.

But you were no longer a place for him to crash into.

You were a mother now.

A lighthouse. A sanctuary.

And if he was going to be in your son’s life… then that life would be calm. Bright. Held in love—not pulled apart by sorrow. Suguru looked over at the bassinet again, his voice breaking as he whispered, “He’s beautiful.” You nodded, biting your lip. “He is.” And the two of you sat in silence.

Not lovers.

Not partners.

Just two people tethered forever by something more precious than either of you could ever undo.

A son.

A future.

And the understanding that love, sometimes, means letting go.

Your parents had just left, your mother fussing over you until the very last second—tucking a throw blanket around your legs, brushing your baby hairs back, making sure you had everything within arm’s reach. Your dad barely glanced at Suguru, offering only a curt nod in your direction before helping your mother out the door with a quiet promise that they’d be back tomorrow to check in.

Then it was quiet again.

Suguru helped you ease upright, his large hand at your back, the other adjusting your pillows behind you. You gave him a soft smile in thanks, and he stepped back to grab your water when your phone buzzed on the nightstand, you glanced at it.

Hiromi [6:12 PM]: Just wrapped up. I have takeout. You want some? Also… Kaito wants to meet the baby 🥺

Your face immediately softened into a smile.

You: Yes please. Bring both my boys 💙

Suguru returned with your water, settling it beside you. You took a sip, wiping your mouth before glancing at him. “Hiromi’s bringing food. And Kaito. Is that okay?” Suguru nodded without a word, though his jaw ticked slightly. About thirty minutes later, there was a knock on the front door. Suguru was the one to answer it, Hiromi stood there in his usual sleek, tailored suit—tie loosened, a hand wrapped around a takeout bag, hair just slightly out of place like he’d run his hands through it a few too many times. Beside him, Kaito bounced in excitement, a backpack on his shoulders and his shoes blinking with red and blue lights, Suguru blinked, taken aback for just a second. Hiromi’s smile was polite. “Evening,” Hiromi said, voice warm. “We brought dinner.” Kaito grinned. “Hi, Mister!” Suguru stepped aside silently, holding the door open. “She’s in the bedroom,” he said, motioning down the hall. You looked up the moment you heard the familiar voices, your eyes lighting up, lips curving into a genuine, delighted smile.

“There they are—my knight in shining armor,” you said, beaming at Hiromi, then turned to Kaito, “—and my Prince Charming.” Kaito giggled at the title and immediately rushed to the bed, backpack bouncing. “Can I see the baby now? Please?” You nodded with a soft laugh. “Come here, sweetheart. Just be very, very careful, okay?” He climbed up with Hiromi’s help and sat cross-legged beside you, eyes wide with wonder as he peeked over at the tiny bundle in your arms. “He’s so small,” Kaito whispered. “Yeah,” you said with a fond smile. “You were this small once too.”

Hiromi lingered at the foot of the bed, looking a little tired. You caught the subtle weight in his expression—his shoulders a little lower, the edge of exhaustion tucked just beneath his eyes. “You okay?” you asked gently.

He gave you a tired grin, scratching his cheek. “Just a tough case. Long day. But this… this makes it better.” You shifted your arm slightly, patting the empty space at the edge of the bed. “Then come see him. Sit.” Hiromi hesitated only a moment before walking over, loosening his tie just a bit more. He crouched beside the bed first, eyes softening as he looked down at the baby in your arms—Sosuke swaddled in soft blues, his little hands curled into tiny fists by his cheeks. “Hi,” Hiromi whispered, like it would be wrong to speak any louder. “You’re perfect, aren’t you?” You smiled at the tender expression on his face—the way his brow furrowed, eyes so full of care, so full of quiet emotion and just across the room, Suguru stood watching it all—watching the way you lit up in Hiromi’s presence, how natural it all felt. How easy. No pain. No history. No storm.

Just something warm and peaceful— the way you always said you needed.

Hiromi was perched at your side on the bed, holding the takeout container balanced in one hand and a spoon in the other. You had one arm curled protectively around Sosuke, who was nestled against your chest, suckling slowly as you breastfed him beneath a soft blanket. “Open,” Hiromi said gently, spoon hovering near your mouth with a bite of warm rice and vegetables, you huffed a laugh, cheeks flushed. “I can feed myself, you know.”

“Not with one hand,” he teased quietly. “Let me do this. You’ve done enough today.” You smiled, opening your mouth, and he fed you carefully, watching you with a softness you didn’t fully have the words to name yet. There was no rush in him. Just a kind of stillness—something grounding. Something safe. From the living room, the muffled sounds of cartoons drifted down the hall where Kaito was sprawled on the couch, giggling and kicking his feet lazily as he watched. Suguru had retreated to the kitchen, needing something to do with his hands. He had found the kettle, filled it, and stood by the counter waiting for it to boil as he prepared your favorite tea. He was still rattled. Still unsure of where exactly he belonged in this new picture.

Then— Soft footsteps padded into the kitchen. Suguru turned, blinking as Kaito stood in the doorway, holding his little hands behind his back, blinking up at him. “Are you Sosuke’s dad?” Kaito asked quietly, Suguru’s breath caught in his throat. It took him a moment, but he finally nodded. “Yeah… I am.” Kaito tilted his head thoughtfully. “Oh,” he said. “I didn’t know he had a dad.” Suguru’s heart sank a little, but he nodded again. “He does.” The little boy shuffled closer, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. His voice was small. “My mommy died when I was born.” Suguru’s lips parted, but he had no words. Just a tightness in his throat that hurt.

Kaito continued, “But my papa says that we have to help Miss Y/N with the baby. ‘Cause sometimes she’s alone. And she helped me in class when I missed my mommy. When I was sad.” Suguru’s hands stilled on the teacup. Kaito looked up at him with wide brown eyes. “So… my mission is to make her smile every day. And Papa’s too. We gotta take care of her and the baby. Because she’s really nice. And she helps people feel better.”

Suguru looked down, the sting in his eyes making him swallow hard. He crouched slowly to Kaito’s level, staring at this little boy who spoke so plainly, so sincerely, with nothing but love in his small voice. “You’re a really good kid,” Suguru said quietly, Kaito shrugged. “She’s my teacher,” he said with a proud grin. “And she’s gonna be a good mom. I can tell.” The kettle whistled, Suguru didn’t move and somewhere inside him, something cracked open—softly, quietly—as he realized this boy who had lost everything still found a reason to show up. Still found purpose in helping someone else smile and he had almost walked away from all of it. He looked back toward the hallway where your laughter echoed faintly, a warm hum of life. “C’mon,” Kaito said, tugging his hand. “The tea’s ready. Miss Y/N likes tea. If you bring it to her, she’ll smile too.” Suguru stood, heart full and heavy, and followed.

The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast golden light over the room, painting everything in slow shadows. Sosuke had finally fallen asleep against your chest, his tiny body curled peacefully under the blanket as you adjusted your arm carefully. Your other hand reached for the water Hiromi had set on the nightstand, your body aching and your soul a little bit quieter now that the storm had passed. Hiromi sat in the chair near the bed, his tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, exhaustion lining his face—but he hadn’t complained once. You watched him silently for a moment, your heart swollen with a kind of fondness you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel in a long time. Then, with a small groan, you glanced down at your chest and sighed dramatically, a sheepish grin tugging at your lips.

“I just want to formally apologize,” you said, breaking the quiet. “The first time you see my breasts, and they’re… swollen and leaking, with a child attached like he’s sucking the life out of me.” Hiromi looked up at you, startled, before a deep laugh escaped him—warm and unfiltered. His shoulders shook slightly as he leaned back, running a hand through his hair. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said through the laughter, smiling with tired eyes. “Honestly. It’s so… human. Raw and real. I’m just here to support you, Y/N.” Your smile softened. “You always say that,” you murmured. “I always mean it.”

The quiet returned for a moment, not awkward or heavy—just full. You reached to brush your fingers gently against Sosuke’s little head, then looked back at Hiromi, voice quieter now. “If you could make a wish right now,” you asked, “and it would come true… what would it be?” Hiromi blinked, surprised. “A wish?” You nodded, eyes on him. “I know you don’t expect anything from me. You’ve been so selfless, Hiromi. But… what does your heart want?” Hiromi took a slow breath, exhaling through his nose as he leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. He glanced down at his hands for a long second before lifting his gaze to yours.

“My heart…” he said slowly, carefully, “wants to stay. I… I enjoy being around you. Your laugh. Your stubbornness. The way you care so much about everyone else, even when you’re breaking. I didn’t think I’d feel anything like this again—not after her.” He didn’t need to say her name. You knew he meant his wife. “But I do,” he continued, voice raw, vulnerable. “I feel… so much. With you.” Your eyes filled gently. “Hiromi…” You shifted your son just a little, carefully tucking the blanket around him before speaking again. “I have feelings too,” you admitted, voice soft, trembling with honesty. “But everything’s still so fresh. And right now… I need to learn how to be a good mom. To give him the best of me. And I want to find my rhythm again. For me.” He nodded immediately, no hesitation in his expression. “I understand,” he said gently. “I don’t want to rush you. I’m not going anywhere, Y/N. I’ll be right here. Whether that’s in your corner, or just down the hall. Whatever you need.”

You let out a shaky breath, the ache in your chest a little lighter now. “Thank you,” you whispered, he smiled. “Take all the time you need.” And in the quiet that followed, you realized—this wasn’t the beginning of a whirlwind romance.

It was the beginning of peace.

Of something steady.

Of something real.

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