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Guys I lwk just realized I have like 150-ish followers???????? Sometimes I forget that I ever posted on this and that I CAN use this account for more than just reading fanficâŠi mean I repost a lot but like I havenât posted stuff since my last Sukuna drawing. Maybe some new art coming soon? I did draw Sukunas beautiful back tattoos that I never posted a while back so lmk if yall want that idk
in which gojo accidentally finds out ryomen sukuna had a wife in a million year old book hahah,hi everyone,english isnt my first language,but i love the idea of sukuna and his wife actually being recorded and not only him as the king of curses! enjoy:)
The archives beneath Jujutsu High had never been particularly exciting.
Most of what survived from the Heian era consisted of brittle scrolls, incomplete temple records, and the sort of historical documents clearly written by people who considered punctuation an unnecessary luxury. Dust lingered in every forgotten corner, clinging to shelves so old they seemed to sag beneath centuries of accumulated history. It smelled faintly of old paper, ink, and cedar.
Gojo Satoru had been there for nearly an hour.
He was already bored.
Another page turned.
Tax records.
Another.
Rice exports.
Another.
A local lord complaining about border disputes to another local lord who was, apparently, equally interested in complaining.
"...If I have to read one more sentence about agricultural taxation," Gojo muttered, lazily resting his chin against his hand, "I'm voting we let Sukuna win."
Silence answered him.
The archives, predictably, lacked a sense of humor.
He sighed dramatically before reaching for another volume from the stack Yaga had insisted might contain "useful historical context."
Useful.
Right.
Ever since Itadori Yuji had swallowed Sukuna's finger, Jujutsu High had begun collecting every surviving document that mentioned the King of Curses. Museums reluctantly opened their vaults, private collectors suddenly found themselves entertaining visits from sorcerers, and forgotten temple archives were being translated for the first time in generations. Somewhere among thousands of years of records, there had to be something. A forgotten ritual. An overlooked weakness. A detail everyone else had dismissed.
Gojo wasn't particularly optimistic.
Still...
If history had somehow preserved a diary that read Dear Journal, today I discovered my one fatal weakness is being stabbed specifically through the left side of my chest, he'd happily spend the afternoon reading ancient calligraphy.
Unfortunately, history appeared determined to be profoundly unhelpful.
He reached for another book.
Unlike the others, this one wasn't a military record or a religious manuscript. Its leather cover had faded almost to gray, softened by centuries of careful handling, while delicate illustrations peeked from between yellowed pages. There was no clan insignia stamped into the binding, no official seal declaring it royal property.
Instead, the first page bore only a careful introduction written in elegant brushstrokes.
A record of remarkable observations gathered throughout the Eastern Dominion during my residence within the palace of Ryomen Sukuna.
Gojo raised an eyebrow.
"...Finally."
This looked considerably more promising.
The anonymous author wasn't a historian, nor a monk, nor a military advisor. Judging by the first several pages, they had simply spent years documenting unusual things worthy of preservation. Ancient weapons. Ceremonial armor. Imported artifacts whose craftsmanship had no equal. Rare medicinal herbs cultivated within the palace gardens. Strange animals presented as tribute from distant kingdoms. Cursed objects too dangerous to be handled without careful supervision.
It wasn't a chronicle of Sukuna himself.
It was a catalogue of everything the painter had considered remarkable enough to immortalize.
Gojo settled more comfortably against one of the archive shelves and turned the page.
The first illustration stretched across nearly two sheets of parchment.
The palace.
Even rendered only in ink and faded mineral pigments, it was immense. Layer upon layer of rooftops climbed into the surrounding mountains, connected by covered corridors, open courtyards, hanging gardens, and terraces that overlooked forests stretching far beyond the horizon. Tiny handwritten annotations surrounded the painting, noting architectural techniques, imported timber, the placement of ceremonial halls, and the irrigation system responsible for feeding the sprawling medicinal gardens.
"...Rich bastard," Gojo murmured.
He turned another page.
The eastern armory.
Another.
The medicinal gardens.
Rows upon rows of unfamiliar herbs spread beneath carefully constructed trellises, each labeled meticulously by the painter. Several paragraphs described their uses in treating fever, poisoned wounds, and cursed-energy exhaustion. It was the sort of obsessive documentation only someone completely fascinated by their subject would bother recording.
Gojo skimmed most of it.
Then his eyes caught something near the corner of the illustration.
Someone.
A woman knelt between the rows of herbs, entirely unaware she had become part of the painting. She held several freshly cut stems in one hand while examining another beneath the afternoon light, her attention fixed solely on the plants before her. There was nothing ceremonial about the moment. She wasn't posing. If anything, she looked as though the painter had simply happened to capture her while documenting the garden itself.
She was... striking.
Not in the exaggerated, idealized way noblewomen often appeared in commissioned portraits, but with the effortless sort of beauty that felt almost accidental. The painter had somehow preserved the softness of an expression never intended to be remembered, the faint smile of someone completely absorbed in whatever occupied her thoughts.
There was no caption naming her.
No explanation.
The accompanying notes continued discussing medicinal herbs as though she weren't there at all.
Gojo frowned for only a second before turning the page.
Interesting.
Probably someone's wife.
Or a servant.
Whatever she was, she clearly wasn't what the painter had been trying to preserve.
At least...
That's what he thought.
The next several pages were exactly what Gojo had expected.
Ceremonial naginata gifted by a northern clan. Bronze incense burners cast in the likeness of dragons. Imported lacquerware. Silk dyed with pigments so expensive the accompanying notes spent nearly half a page explaining their origin. Whoever had ruled this place had clearly never been told the meaning of moderation.
"...Yeah, yeah," Gojo muttered as he turned another page. "Very rich. Very terrifying."
The painter certainly thought so.
Every object had been rendered with painstaking care, accompanied by meticulous observations written in an elegant, restrained hand. There was no embellishment, no mythology, no exaggerated admirationâonly patient documentation by someone determined to preserve what they had seen exactly as it was.
Gojo almost missed her the second time.
The painting itself depicted one of the palace's inner courtyards. Stone pathways wound between shallow streams that carried water toward the medicinal gardens, every bridge and carved pillar labeled neatly along the margins. Near the edge of the page, almost hidden beneath the branches of a flowering tree, the same woman from the herb garden crossed the courtyard with a woven basket resting comfortably against her hip.
Different robes.
Different season.
The same gentle expression.
He paused only long enough to convince himself it was a coincidence before turning another page.
The palace infirmary occupied nearly two full illustrations. Shelves climbed from floor to ceiling beneath carefully painted bundles of drying herbs, rows of ceramic jars, handwritten remedies, and instruments whose purpose Gojo couldn't even begin to guess. The accompanying notes remained as methodical as ever.
The palace infirmary contained an unusually extensive collection of dried herbs, prepared tinctures, and medicinal texts.
Several labels were amended during my stay by the lady of the inner residence, whose familiarity with the apothecary exceeded my own understanding.
She received servants and laborers seeking remedies with notable patience, regardless of rank. Such interruptions appeared to occasion no objection from His Majesty.
Gojo frowned.
"...She was treating servants?"
The sentence lingered with him longer than he expected.
Not because someone within the palace knew medicineâthat wasn't unusual.
Because whoever this woman was, she seemed to move through the palace with remarkable freedom. Servants sought her out. Physicians accepted her corrections. And apparently, Ryomen Sukuna himself had never objected.
"...Huh."
He turned another page.
Then another.
Without realizing it, he stopped looking at the artifacts first.
Instead, his eyes searched for her.
She appeared beside an aviary housing brilliantly colored birds brought from distant kingdoms, one perched comfortably along the wooden railing as she watched it with quiet fascination. Another painting captured a covered corridor after heavy snowfall, the architecture clearly intended as the subject, yet there she was again in the distance, carrying fresh bundles of firewood alongside two laughing servants. A study of the palace gardens at the beginning of spring placed her kneeling beside newly planted herbs, sleeves rolled neatly above her wrists as she worked with soil-stained hands while gardeners carried tools around her as though the scene were entirely ordinary.
She never acknowledged the painter.
More curiously, the painter never seemed particularly interested in her either.
She simply... happened to be there.
Again.
And again.
Gojo flipped back several pages.
Then forward.
Gojo turned the page with considerably more enthusiasm than he had intended to admit.
Another illustration unfolded across the parchment, this one depicting one of the palace's inner courtyards surrounding a wide koi pond. The painter had devoted remarkable attention to the water itself, carefully reproducing each reflection of the surrounding architecture and every ornamental stone lining its banks. Bright carp drifted lazily beneath lily pads while flowering trees arched overhead.
Near the edge of the painting, almost hidden beneath one of those trees, Sukuna stood with his arms folded while the same woman crouched beside the pond, one hand extended over the water.
Several koi had gathered around her.
One had practically climbed into her palm.
The accompanying note read in the same restrained hand.
The eastern pond houses carp of uncommon size imported from the southern provinces.
The fish proved unusually receptive to the lady's presence, gathering readily whenever she approached the water.
His Majesty was observed accompanying these visits with surprising regularity.
Gojo stared.
"...You followed them to the fish."
Another page.
The painter had chosen to document the palace kitchens during preparations for one of the seasonal banquets. Servants hurried between enormous iron cauldrons while trays of elaborate dishes disappeared toward the dining halls. Every utensil had been painstakingly sketched and labeled with almost obsessive precision.
Near one corner stood the same woman.
She held a small porcelain cup toward Sukuna with unmistakable skepticism painted across her face.
He appeared... unimpressed.
The note beneath explained nothing and somehow everything.
Among the imported goods presented during my stay was a variety of mountain tea said to be favored by western nobles.
His Majesty expressed no opinion regarding its quality.
The lady declared it comparable in flavor to boiled bark.
It was not served again.
Gojo lowered the book.
"...She bullied the King of Curses into changing tea."
He snorted.
"...Good for her."
The next illustration depicted one of the open verandas overlooking the palace gardens.
Several palace cats had claimed the afternoon sun for themselves, sprawled shamelessly across polished cedar floors without the slightest concern for royal dignity. Most ignored everyone entirely.
One, however, had selected Sukuna.
The enormous white creature slept comfortably across his lap while he continued reading a scroll as though the additional weight had ceased to surprise him years ago.
A second cat had curled against the woman's side, entirely content to steal the sleeve of her kimono as a pillow.
The note beneath was concise.
Contrary to expectation, the palace cats appeared entirely unafraid of His Majesty.
A number demonstrated equal attachment to the lady.
Whether this reflects discernment or poor instinct remains uncertain.
Gojo barked out a laugh.
"No. Absolutely not."
He looked closer.
"...Why are there so many cats?"
He turned another page.
The palace had been decorated for one of its larger seasonal celebrations.
Lanterns stretched across every corridor. Musicians occupied the gardens. Nobles drifted between pavilions dressed in layers of embroidered silk, each household distinguished by elaborate colors and patterns. The painter had clearly intended to preserve the ceremonial garments worn throughout the festival, filling nearly the entire page with notes describing imported dyes, weaving techniques, and regional embroidery.
Only after several moments did Gojo notice them.
They weren't standing together.
Not exactly.
She spoke with several noblewomen near one veranda while Sukuna stood some distance away among his retainers.
There was nothing unusual about that.
Until Gojo noticed their robes.
Different cuts.
Different embroidery.
The same silk.
The exact same deep crimson woven with black thread that caught the evening light differently from every other garment in the painting.
His eyes drifted to the note beneath.
During the Mid-Autumn celebration, the household of His Majesty wore garments fashioned from the same southern silk recently presented by foreign envoys.
The weaving was said to have required nearly three years to complete.
No comparable textile was observed elsewhere within the palace.
Gojo blinked.
"...Matching outfits?"
He leaned back, rubbing one hand across his face.
"I don't know why that's bothering me more than literally everything else."
By now he'd completely abandoned any pretense of researching Sukuna.
He wasn't looking for cursed techniques anymore.
He wasn't looking for weaknesses.
Every time he turned another page, he found himself hopingâ
Just a littleâ
That she'd be there again.
There couldn't have been many pages left.
Gojo realized that only because the parchment had begun to thin beneath his fingers. The paintings grew larger now, less concerned with cataloguing individual objects and more interested in preserving places before the passing seasons altered them once again.
It almost felt as though the anonymous painter had grown fond of the palace by the end of his stay.
Gojo couldn't really blame him.
He turned another page.
The western library occupied nearly the entire illustration, shelves climbing toward an impossibly high ceiling while afternoon sunlight spilled through open lattice windows. Scrolls lay stacked across low tables beside brushes, loose sheets of parchment, and unfinished copies of medicinal texts waiting to be rebound.
He barely looked at any of it.
She sat near one of the windows with an open book resting across her lap, completely absorbed in whatever she was reading. Across the room, Sukuna appeared to be doing exactly the same.
Neither acknowledged the other.
Neither spoke.
The silence somehow looked... comfortable.
The note beneath the painting was characteristically restrained.
The palace library remained open throughout the daylight hours.
Conversation within was uncommon.
His Majesty and the lady frequently occupied the western alcove during the afternoon, often departing no sooner than the changing of the lamps.
Gojo stared for a moment.
"...They read together?"
He let out a quiet laugh.
"That's... unexpectedly adorable."
The next page depicted one of the palace's covered walkways after a summer rain. Water still clung to the tiled roofs, reflecting the evening light in scattered ribbons of gold. Servants hurried about drying wooden floors while gardeners collected broken branches left behind by the storm.
Near the center of the painting, the woman stood beneath the shelter of the corridor, one sleeve extended beyond the roofline to catch the falling rain.
Sukuna stood beside her.
Not participating.
Simply... waiting.
The painter's note read:
Summer storms commonly delayed activity throughout the palace.
His Majesty appeared remarkably patient on such occasions.
Whether this disposition owed to the weather itself or to his company, I cannot confidently determine.
Gojo covered his mouth.
"...You're killing me."
He turned another page before he could think about why that sentence had made him smile.
The final illustration unfolded slowly beneath his hands.
It stretched across both pages.
The western balcony overlooked nearly the entire valley beyond the palace, where mountains dissolved into evening haze beneath a sky painted in shades of amber and violet. Vines climbed lazily around carved cedar pillars while lanterns waited to be lit with the coming dusk. Every stone, every beam, every flowering branch had been reproduced with almost reverent precision.
Only after several seconds did Gojo notice them.
Not because they had been hidden.
Because they fit the scene too naturally.
She rested one hand against the wooden railing, looking out across the mountains with an easy smile that suggested she had been speaking moments before. Even trapped forever in ink, there was movement in her expression, as though the next breath would bring another story.
Beside her stood Sukuna.
Close enough that the sleeves of their robes nearly touched.
His posture remained exactly as history remembered itârelaxed, imposing, completely certain of itself.
But...
He wasn't looking at the mountains.
He was looking at her.
Not intensely.
Not possessively.
Just...
Listening.
Like wherever the conversation had wandered was more interesting than the sunset behind it.
Gojo felt something in his chest quietly shift.
He looked closer.
Their robes were different from those worn during the festival.
Different embroidery.
Different colors.
Yet the silk itself caught the fading sunlight exactly the same way, woven from the same impossibly fine thread that shimmered with identical depth beneath the evening sky.
His eyes drifted lower.
There.
A simple band of gold circled her left hand.
The same band rested upon Sukuna's.
For several seconds, Gojo simply stared.
Then, almost mechanically, his eyes dropped to the final note written beneath the painting.
His Majesty seldom remained available for portraiture beyond matters of state.
During my residence, I found him most frequently upon the western balcony in the company of the lady of the inner residence.
Though I first intended to preserve the architecture, the gardens, and the quality of the evening light, I confess these figures appeared so often within them that omitting either would have rendered the observations incomplete.
Perhaps future generations shall remember this palace for its sovereign.
I suspect those who truly visited it will remember that it was once lived in.
Silence settled over the archives.
Gojo looked back at the painting.
At Sukuna.
At the woman.
At the matching rings.
Then back to Sukuna again.
"...You've got to be kidding me."
He laughed softly to himself, shaking his head as he closed the book halfway.
"I came down here looking for dirt on the King of Curses..."
His thumb lingered between the pages.
"...and somehow I ended up reading a thousand-year-old married couple's photo album."
His eyes drifted back to the woman one last time.
He still didn't know her name.
The painter had never written it.
Not once.
Yet by the end of the journal, she felt just as impossible to forget as the man history had immortalized.
Gojo smiled to himself.
"...Man."
Another glance at the final painting.
"I don't think anyone mentioned the wife."
BONUS :)
Gojo closed the journal with far more care than he'd opened it.
"...Well."
He rested a hand against the worn leather cover for another moment before sliding it neatly back into its place among the shelves.
"So much for finding Sukuna's secret weakness."
Instead, he'd somehow spent the better part of an afternoon reading what amounted to centuries-old candid sketches of a palace... and wondering why history had neglected to mention the woman who seemed to inhabit every corner of it.
He still didn't know her name.
The painter had never written it.
Not once.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
Yaga.
Gojo answered with an exaggerated sigh.
"If you're calling to ask whether I've discovered the King of Curses' fatal weakness, I'm afraid the answer is no."
A pause.
"I did, however, discover that historians are terrible at prioritizing information."
"...What are you talking about?"
"Long story."
"It can wait."
Yaga's voice remained as even as ever.
"I need you upstairs."
Gojo glanced once more toward the shelf where he'd returned the journal.
"...Now?"
"Now."
He pushed himself off the floor with another dramatic sigh.
"I was busy."
"I know."
"...Research."
"I know."
Gojo smiled to himself.
"Fine. What's so important?"
"We've hired another instructor."
That caught his attention.
"Oh?"
"They'll be assisting with first-year practical training."
Gojo raised an eyebrow.
"Didn't know we were hiring."
"We weren't planning to."
"...Sounds mysterious."
"It isn't."
Yaga paused.
"I want you to show them around the campus."
Gojo groaned loudly enough that Yaga almost certainly moved the phone away from his ear.
"You're making me do orientation?"
"You're the only instructor available."
"I hate being available."
"I'll see you upstairs."
The call ended.
Gojo slipped his hands into his pockets and headed toward the archive stairs, throwing one last glance over his shoulder at the shelf.
He took one last look at the balcony painting before closing it completely.
The woman smiled forever from faded mineral pigments, unaware that a thousand years later someone was trying very hard to figure out who she'd been.
Gojo smiled to himself.
"...Still think you would've made this book way more interesting than your husband."
With a quiet shake of his head, he disappeared up the staircase.
The archives fell silent once more.
The old journal remained exactly where he'd left it, tucked neatly among hundreds of forgotten records.
Waiting.
A/N: honestly the thought of him falling in love with this guys wife is hilarious lmao
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One year after your divorce, you runs into your ex husband at a friend's birthday party. Neither of you expected to see each other again, and neither of you had prepared for the memories that come with it.
You and Sukuna had been married for three beautiful years, a time when your life felt completely over the moon. It was happy, peaceful, and everything you had ever wished for. In those early stages, you both thoroughly enjoyed your lives together. You went on endless dates and had sex in every location you could possibly think of.
Even on the kitchen counter and yeah even public bathroom, you never regret any of that.
That was your life with Sukuna laughing until your stomach physically hurt, sitting lazily on his lap, and watching cheesy romantic comedies. Even though he always complained that they were so boring and dramatic, you both had watched 'Sheâs the Man' at least six times, and he always watched it with full interest just because you were there.
He was a good man. Even though others constantly portrayed him as an arrogant asshole with an ego as high as the Burj Khalifa, or a ruthless bastard who would beat the shit out of anyone for looking at him wrong, he was never that way with you.
With you, he was something entirely different. He was the only person who made you feel completely safe in his arms. You loved spending every second with him. You and Sukuna genuinely couldn't live without each other, and he was always more than proud to admit it. He was a busy man and so were you. you worked long hours at the hospital, and he was a highly successful architect, but the dates and the effortless romance were always a priority. He would patiently paint your nails while you talked his ear off about the latest hospital gossip or a new show you were watching. And he always listened. He truly did.
If you ever felt sick, he was right there. He would immediately take a day off work just to look after you, because you were his. His sweet girl.
The age gap between you was just two years. You had initially met in high school as bitter enemies who absolutely couldn't stand the sight of each other, only to end up as husband and wife who couldn't bear to be apart.
When you turned twenty nine, you got pregnant, and Sukuna was absolutely over the world. He was so happy. He always found a way to hold your growing baby bump, gently squeezing it and kissing your skin, loving you even more with each passing day.
One afternoon, while you were standing in the kitchen making tea, Sukuna wrapped his arms around you from behind. He placed both of his large, rough hands over the small baby bump that was still growing. "I bet it's going to be a girl" he murmured gently, pressing soft, warm kisses against your neck.
Both of you simply wanted a healthy, fit child. the gender never truly mattered. Sukuna built and prepared the nursery entirely by himself. You both decorated it or rather, you sat comfortably in a chair and gave directions while Sukuna did all the hard labor, because he refused to let you lift a single finger.
Life was perfect. It was just like a fairy tale.
But fairy tales only exist in movies and books, not in real life.
You miscarried. You were driving home from the hospital after a long shift. Sukuna had called and told you to wait at the hospital until he could come pick you up, but you had refused. You told him that you had your own car, and that there was no point in him making the extra trip.
If only you had waited that day, maybe things would have turned out differently. The horrific car crash happened too fast, right in front of your eyes. A massive truck slammed directly into your vehicle with enough force to kill you, and a part of you deeply wished it had. At least then you wouldn't have had to live through the agony of losing your baby girl. It was a girl. You were seven months pregnant, and the doctors had to cut your stomach open in an emergency procedure just to take the lifeless infant out.
That loss completely broke both you and Sukuna. You fell into a deep, suffocating depression. Sukuna stopped working entirely for a solid month just to remain by your side, pulling you through every violent nightmare and every painful bout of crying.
He supported you constantly, even though he was losing himself, too. He had lost his daughter, and he had nearly lost his wife.
But your severe depression eventually led to you getting constantly annoyed over the smallest things. You started making wild, baseless accusations, claiming Sukuna was cheating on you. Deep down, you felt absolutely pathetic, but you couldn't stop. Sukuna never snapped back. he understood the immense trauma you were carrying. It went on like that for a year you constantly ignored him or showed him a terrible attitude over nothing. He was getting tired. Not tired of you he could never be tired of you. but completely exhausted by the toxic wall you had built between you.
And when he finally sighed one evening and told you to stop acting like a bitch, you completely lost it.
"Oh?! So I am the bitch?!" you had yelled at the top of your lungs, tears streaming down your face. "Really? Fuck you, Sukuna! I fucking wish I never married you! I fucking hate you!"
He never answered. He just stood there, glaring at you with a deeply broken expression before he turned and left the house.
After that night, he started drinking heavily and smoking even more. Everything came to a sudden, crashing end far too quickly. You moved out of the shared house, refusing to take a single dime of alimony because you didn't want anything from him. And just like that, after a quick and quiet divorce, it was completely over.
Now, a year later, you stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down a beautiful, elegant baby blue silk dress. It was completely backless, making you look incredibly chic and sophisticated. Your hair was tied up into a perfectly styled messy bun, your makeup was done effortlessly, and you wore expensive, elegant heels.
You walked toward the large house where Shoko's twin babies were celebrating their first birthday. You felt genuinely happy for her. Maybe a tiny, subconscious part of you felt a slight sting of jealousy seeing your friends move forward with their families, but you were genuinely thrilled for them. Your own love life was alright. you dated on and off, having casual sex whenever you felt the need for physical affection. Mostly, you spent your days shopping and treating yourself, because you deserved it.
You had been consistently going to therapy ever since the tragedy, and it was helping.
Taking a deep, steady breath just like your therapist had taught you to do you prepared to knock on the front door. But you quickly realized it was useless, as the loud sounds of laughter and chatter were echoing from the backyard. Shoko and her husband, Suguru, had rented this beautiful, massive estate for a week to celebrate. They were such a wonderful couple.
Holding the beautifully wrapped gift bags tightly in your hands, you walked around the side of the house toward the backyard. The spacious lawn was packed with people, covered in colorful clusters of balloons, and centered around a massive table loaded with delicious food. At least you knew you could enjoy the catering.
You walked gently over to Shoko, who was currently holding one of the twins. You didn't look around the crowd too much, not caring to see who else was there, since you had cut off most of your old social circle after the divorce.
"Oh my god! Look who's here! Auntie is looking so pretty!" Shoko cooed in a sweet baby voice, rocking the infant in her arms.
You giggled softly, walking right up to them to press a loud, loving kiss against the baby girl's chubby cheek. "Muah! My beautiful baby girl is getting so big! Where is the other one?" you asked, hugging Shoko tightly and kissing her cheek.
"Thanks, bitch! The other one just completely shit herself, you know how it is," Shoko laughed, rolling her eyes. "Suguru is upstairs changing her diaper right now. By the way, you are absolutely glowing!"
You smiled gently. "Thank you, Sho, Motherhood definitely suits you, but for God Sake stop cursing in front of this cutie pie." You leaned down to kiss little Lily again, and she gave you a wide, gummy smile that completely melted your heart.
"Alright, alright, whatever the Boss says" Shoko winked playfully. "Anyway, Suguru invited a ton of hot men today, so if you're looking to find a good one, keep your eyes open."
You shook your head, laughing softly at her antics. "Sure, Sho. Here, take the gifts. And I think this little one needs a diaper change now, too." you added, pointing at the telltale smell suddenly drifting from Lily.
Shoko made a comical, disgusted face. She quickly grabbed the bags, blew you a kiss, and hurried off toward the house.
Left alone, you felt a sudden wave of boredom. You recognized a few familiar faces in the crowd, but every single one of them was wrapped up with their partners and their children. Deciding to skip the awkward small talk, you headed inside the main house to use the restroom.
As you stepped through the back doors, you could hear Suguru and Shoko playfully bickering over the diaper changes in the next room, making you chuckle softly.
"Hey, Y/N! How are you? It's been a while!" Suguru called out warmly, spotting you near the hallway.
"I'm doing really well, Suguru. What about you?" you called back, pausing by the stairs.
"Just trying to adjust to fatherhood," he said with a friendly, tired smile. "Go ahead and enjoy yourself today!"
You nodded appreciatively and began walking upstairs, adjusting the silk of your dress. The blue fabric flowed elegantly with every step, clinging beautifully to your curves. You stared at the various doors in the upper hallway, wondering what kind of massive estate Shoko had actually rented. There were so many rooms, and absolutely none of them had a bathroom sign on them.
Sighing, you opened a random door just to see if it was a restroom, closing it behind you when you realized it was just a simple bedroom. Turning around to leave, you felt someone turn the doorknob from the other side at the exact same time. The door swung open abruptly, catching you off guard. In the sudden movement, one of your expensive earrings slipped from your earlobe and clattered to the floor.
"Tsk! Stupid" you muttered under your breath, immediately bending down to retrieve it.
But before your fingers could touch the jewelry, another hand reached down and picked it up. Your entire life completely stopped. Your breath caught in your throat. You could forget almost anything in this world, but you could never, ever forget those large, rough, heavily tattooed hands.
"Here" Sukuna said lazily.
As he held the earring out, his sharp gaze finally met yours, and he froze completely. He had just been wandering the halls looking for a bathroom to take a quick piss, casually opening doors, and now he deeply regretted it.
You were standing right there in front of him, looking absolutely beautiful out of this world beautiful. How long had it been? A year? Maybe even longer since he had last seen your face. He had tried asking Suguru about how you were doing a few times, but their mutual friends had never given him much information.
You quickly snatched the earring from his rough palm, your fingers trembling slightly as you tried to clip it back onto your ear. He stood directly in the doorway, his massive frame making it incredibly hard for you to move or slide past him.
"Excuse me" you murmured sharply, keeping your eyes trained on your hands as you struggled with the jewelry.
"Y/n?" he finally spoke.
His voice was just as rough and deep as you remembered. He still smelled exactly the same a distinct blend of expensive cologne and heavy cigarette smoke, a scent you used to love so much. He was wearing a crisp white button down shirt and navy blue trousers, making him look exceptionally handsome and sharp.
"Yeah?" you replied, firmly avoiding eye contact.
"...How have you been?" he asked quietly.
His eyes had softened. They had actually softened in a way that showed he deeply, genuinely cared about the answer. Because he did.
You took a deep, grounding breath, exactly the way your therapist had instructed you to do during moments of high stress. Finally finding the courage, you lifted your chin and met his gaze. The moment your eyes locked, a crushing wave of old memories flashed through your mind, threatening to tear down your composure.
You cleared your throat, forcing your voice to remain steady. "I am good. really well, actually. What about you?"
You began to step forward, intending to finally walk past him now that he had moved slightly to the side. But as you stepped out into the hallway, his long strides fell right into alignment with yours, walking beside you.
"fine" he muttered, looking straight ahead. "I didn't know you were going to be here today."
"I didn't know you'd be here either" you replied, a slight edge to your tone.
"I'm surprised you even came, considering you've been completely ghosting all of our mutual friends." He said making you annoyed
"I haven't been ghosting Shoko," you defended yourself softly. "And why wouldn't I come?"
"Whatever" He muttered, a familiar spark of annoyance rising in your chest.
Sukuna let out a quiet sigh, his eyes lingering on your profile for a brief second. "You look..nice, Y/n. You're glowing. Life has been treating you right, I guess."
"Yeah, it has" you lied smoothly, keeping your chin held high.
"Alright then. See you around," he murmured. He stopped walking, turning back toward the stairs to head down to the party.
You paused for a split second, staring at his retreating back. The heavy, deliberate way he walked, the sharp clench of his jaw every single detail violently reminded you of the old times. Of the life you used to have.
When you finally made your way down to the backyard, your eyes immediately caught sight of Shokoâs mother. You had always deeply disliked that woman. You could never fully pin down why, but she had never liked you either perhaps out of some strange, deep-seated jealousy or bitterness you could never understand.
Your eyes instinctively began scanning the crowded yard, searching for Sukuna. You immediately hated yourself for doing it. But when you finally located him across the lawn, you realized he was already staring directly at you. The moment your eyes met, he sharply snapped his head away, pretending to look at something else.
Eventually, it was time for the highlight of the party. Shoko and Suguru stood behind a massive cake, holding little Lily and Liana as the babies bubbled, babbled, and screamed happily. Everyone gathered around the long banquet table to eat and celebrate. The atmosphere was filled with loud laughter and the clinking of glasses.
By total twist of fate, you found yourself seated right in the middle of Kenjaku and an older lady who was eating her food like a pig. Directly across the table, sitting right in front of you, was Sukuna. Beside him sat Shoko's mother and Suguru.
The conversations flowed effortlessly across the table, with various guests sharing funny stories from high school, talking about work, and discussing life.
Until Shoko's mother loudly cleared her throat, capturing the attention of the table. "I truly think that being a mother is a gift," she announced pompously. "Not every woman possesses the ability or the grace to have that."
Shoko rolled her eyes hard but chose not to say anything, wanting to keep the peace. You let out a quiet, sarcastic chuckle, catching the way Suguru practically gagged into his drink at his mother-in-law's words.
"And I am just so incredibly happy that my sweet Shoko is such a great mother" the older woman continued loudly, turning to face the other elderly ladies at the table with a huge, boastful smile. "She handles the entire house and two babies perfectly."
You set your fork down, a small, calm smile playing on your lips. "Motherhood is beautiful, certainly" you countered smoothly. "But I think not everyone deserves to have that blessing. I've seen some of the worst people have children, only for those poor kids to end up with severe mental health problems because of their parents."
"Of course, of course!" Shoko's mother let out a loud, forced laugh, clearly displeased at being challenged.
Across the table, Sukuna let out a rough scoff. He grabbed a fresh bottle of beer, taking a long sip before casually pouring more alcohol into the cups of the guests sitting near him. His sharp eyes shifted up, locking onto you as if silently asking if you needed a drink or if you were doing alright. You simply shook your head subtly, looking away from him.
Shoko's mother narrowed her eyes, her gaze landing squarely on you. The sweet, fake smile on her face turned incredibly malicious.
"Didn't you have a miscarriage, Y/n?" she asked loudly, her voice cutting through the chatter of the table.
Your entire body went completely still. The ambient noise of the party seemed to vanish instantly. Across the table, Sukunaâs hand froze dead in mid air, his beer glass halting just inches from his lips.
Shokoâs head snapped toward her mother, her face contorting into an absolute fury as she threw her a deadly glare. "Mom!, stop--"
You swallowed the sudden lump of ice in your throat, forcing yourself to take a slow breath. "Uhm, yeah. Unfortunately, I did" you replied softly, your voice trembling slightly. A few of the older women sitting nearby immediately began murmuring softly, trying to show genuine empathy and comfort toward you to smooth over the tension.
But Shokoâs mother wasn't finished. She let out a soft, dismissive hum, leaning forward onto the table. "Well, have you ever considered that perhaps God took your child away from you because He knew you wouldn't be a good mother? Whatever happens, happens for a good reason. Maybe that kid was just supposed to die now or later anywayâ"
Before the horrific sentence could even fully leave her mouth, Sukuna was on his feet.
It didn't take him a single second. With an explosive, terrifying speed, his fist flew across the table, punching Shokoâs mother squarely in the face.
The heavy wood of the table rattled as the woman went flying backward out of her chair, crashing hard into the grass. The entire backyard erupted into absolute chaos and screaming.
"You fucking hag!" Shokoâs father roared in shock, rushing forward to violently push Sukuna away.
But Sukuna wasn't having a single piece of it. He was completely out of his mind with pure, unadulterated rage. He lunged forward again, his massive fists throwing punch after punch, completely blind to the world around him. You stood up from your chair, frozen in absolute shock, entirely overwhelmed as the screams of the guests echoed in your ears.
"And I think God thinks your fucking time has come, and that you don't deserve to live in this world anymore! How about that, huh?!" Sukuna roared, his deep voice vibrating with an terrifying, animalistic fury. "Talk about my girl like that again Idare you!-- Fucking let me go! I am going to kill this fucking hag!"
Suguru, Kenjaku, and three other men had to throw their entire weight against Sukuna, desperately pinning his arms and dragging him backward to keep him from completely destroying the older woman.
Sukuna was breathing heavily, his white shirt slightly torn as he was finally forced out of the backyard and away from the party. The celebration was entirely ruined. someone was already franticly calling an ambulance for the bleeding woman on the grass.
Your vision blurred completely as heavy tears finally spilled over your eyelashes. You couldn't believe someone could be so cruel, to say something so deeply monstrous to you about the daughter you had lost.
In a daze, you quickly wiped at your wet cheeks, walking as fast as your heels could carry you away from the chaotic house and out toward the front driveway.
As you reached the quiet street, you spotted him.
Sukuna was leaning heavily against his motorcycle, a lit cigarette pressed between his lips. His knuckles were bruised and stained with blood, his chest still heaving with residual adrenaline. As the sound of your heels clicked against the asphalt, his sharp eyes lifted, locking directly onto yours.
Seeing the sheer, protective fury still lingering in his gaze the same man who had just risked everything to defend your honor, had made completely broke down. You burst into violent, heavy tears right there on the pavement.
There is a very specific, highly entertaining phenomenon that occurs whenever you take your husband out in public. You like to call it the âTerror and Thirstâ effect.
Today, at the crowded public beach, it is in full swing.
You are currently lounging under the massive shade of a navy blue beach umbrella, a trashy romance novel resting on your lap, watching the spectacle unfold at the shoreline.
Ryomen Sukuna is, objectively, a masterpiece of a man. Standing at a towering 6â4â, he is built like a heavyweight championâbroad shoulders, a thick chest, and a torso carved out of solid granite. Heâs wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung, black board shorts that sit dangerously low on his hips, putting the intricate, sprawling black tattoos that cover his chest, arms, and stomach on full, glorious display.
He is hot as fuck. Itâs a fact that is currently not lost on the group of college girls sitting on a blanket about twenty yards away. They havenât stopped staring, whispering behind their hands, and aggressively adjusting their bikini tops for the last half hour.
But here is the catch: Sukuna is also terrifying.
He has this natural, resting aura of absolute disdain for anyone who isnât you or your son. Heâs a snob, plain and simple. He doesnât smile at strangers, he doesnât make polite small talk, and if someone stares at him for too long, he gives them a dead-eyed, chilling glare that practically drops the surrounding temperature by ten degrees.
Case in point: one of the girls giggles a little too loudly, pointing in his direction. Sukuna, who is currently standing ankle-deep in the surf, slowly turns his head. He doesnât say a word. He just narrows his crimson eyes, his face completely blank, and stares her down.
The girl visibly pales, her hand dropping instantly. She quickly turns around, suddenly very interested in the contents of her cooler.
Sukuna lets out a quiet, dismissive scoff, turning his attention back to the water.
âYouâre going to give those poor girls a complex, babe,â you call out, unable to hide your amusement.
Sukuna looks over his shoulder at you, and the transformation is instantaneous. The cold, intimidating mask melts away, replaced by an expression so incredibly soft and devoted it makes your chest ache. The corners of his mouth twitch up into a small, fond smile.
âNot my problem that they are annoying,â he says, his voice carrying easily over the sound of the crashing waves. âBesides, I only want one woman looking at me.â
You roll your eyes, though your cheeks heat up. âSmooth, Ryomen. Very smooth.â
âDada! Splash!â
A tiny, high-pitched voice interrupts the moment. Yuji, currently sporting a pair of tiny black swim trunks that perfectly match his dadâs, is waddling furiously through the shallow water. Heâs got a pair of bright orange floaties strapped to his chubby arms, his pink hair plastered to his forehead from the ocean spray.
Sukunaâs attention snaps to his son. He doesnât say anything, just calmly wades deeper into the water, his massive hands reaching down to scoop the toddler up under the armpits.
âYou want to splash, little man?â Sukuna asks quietly, his tone a low, soothing rumble.
âYeah! Big splash!â Yuji cheers, kicking his little legs.
You watch, completely mesmerized, as your terrifying, snobbish husband hoists your two-year-old high into the air. Sukuna tosses him upâjust high enough to make Yuji squeal with delightâand catches him effortlessly, dipping him down so his little toes drag through the water.
Itâs a beautiful, chaotic contrast. The giant, tattooed wall of muscle, gently playing in the waves with a giggling, chubby-cheeked toddler.
They play in the water for another twenty minutes. Sukuna is quiet, mostly just listening to Yuji babble about the âbig fishesâ and the âsalty water,â occasionally offering a calm nod or a soft chuckle. He is completely in his element, entirely unbothered by the rest of the world.
Eventually, Sukuna wades out of the water, carrying Yuji on his hip. Water is dripping from Sukunaâs pink hair, running down the hard planes of his chest and tracing the lines of his tattoos. It is a sight that should be illegal.
He walks over to the umbrella, grabbing a towel with his free hand and tossing it over his shoulder. He sets Yuji down on the sand.
âGo to mama, buddy. Let her dry you off,â Sukuna murmurs, running a hand through his wet hair.
But Yuji has other plans.
He shakes himself off like a wet puppy, sending droplets of water flying everywhere. He takes two steps toward you, stops, and then his head snaps to the left.
You follow his gaze. A new group of girlsâthree of them, looking like they just stepped out of a swimsuit catalogâhave set up their chairs near the shoreline.
âOh, for fuckâs sake,â you mutter, dropping your book. âNot again.â
Yujiâs eyes go wide. He completely ignores you, turning on his heel and marching straight toward the girls. His little chest is puffed out, his arms swinging with an unearned amount of swagger for a kid who still wears pull-ups at night.
âSukuna,â you warn, pointing at your son. âStop him.â
Sukuna doesnât move. He just stands there, drying his chest with the towel, watching Yuji with a quiet, amused smirk. âWhy? Heâs on a mission.â
âHe is two! He is literally a baby!â you hiss, standing up. âWhy does he act like a frat boy on spring break?â
âSon't ask me,â Sukuna replies, clearly avoiding your eyes, he took a sip from the bottle of water. He doesn't say it, but you can hear the lingering amusement in his voicd. âLet the boy have fun, babe.â
You groan, watching helplessly as Yuji reaches the girls.
He stops right in front of their beach chairs. He puts his chubby little hands on his hips, tilts his head, and unleashes the weapon: your bright, disarming smile.
âHi!â Yuji chirps loudly. âI Yuji!â
The girls immediately stop talking. They look down at the tiny, pink-haired toddler, and the collective swoon is almost audible.
âOh my god, hi!â one of them coos, leaning forward. âArenât you just the cutest thing ever?â
âPweety,â Yuji says, pointing a tiny finger at the girlâs sparkly bikini top. He then flexes his little arm, showing off a completely non-existent bicep. âLook! Strong like dada!â
âI canât believe this,â you whisper, burying your face in your hands. Sukuna lets out a low, quiet chuckle next to you.
âYou are a terrible influence,â you glare at him.
âBabe, I didnât do anything,â Sukuna says, his voice completely deadpan, though his eyes are dancing with mirth. âIâm just standing here.â
Down by the water, the girls are eating it up. They are giggling, offering Yuji a plastic beach toy, which he graciously accepts. But then, one of the girls looks up. Her eyes scan the beach, looking for the parents, and she spots Sukuna.
You can practically see the cartoon hearts pop out of her eyes.
She stands up, brushing sand off her legs, and walks over to Yuji, taking his little hand. âCome on, sweetie. Letâs go find your dad.â
She leads Yuji back toward your umbrella, her eyes locked entirely on Sukuna. She has that lookâthe look of a woman who thinks sheâs about to shoot her shot with a single dad.
âExcuse me,â the girl says, her voice dropping into a sultry purr as she approaches. She completely ignores you, standing right in front of Sukuna. âIs this little guy yours? He wandered over to us.â
Sukuna stops drying his hair. His smilr vanishes, instantly replaced by that cold snobbery. He looks down at the girl, his expression completely blank, his eyes devoid of any warmth.
He doesnât say a word to her.
Instead, he steps forward, completely invading her personal space with his massive frame, forcing her to take a nervous step back. He reaches down and scoops Yuji up into his arms.
âDada! Pweety girl!â Yuji babbles, pointing at the woman.
Sukuna looks at the girl for one more second. Itâs a look that clearly says, You are entirely beneath my notice.
âThanks,â Sukuna says. His voice is quiet, but it carries a heavy, chilling finality that makes the girl flinch. âCome here buddy lets go to mamaâ
He turns his back on her without another word, walking the two steps over to you. The girl stands there for a second, her face flushed bright red with embarrassment, before she quickly turns and scurries back to her friends.
You are trying very hard not to laugh. âYou didnât have to be so mean to her.â
âI wasnât,â Sukuna scoffs, setting Yuji down on your beach chair. âI just didnât care to speak to her.â
âShe was totally hitting on you.â
Sukuna finally looks at you, and the ice in his eyes melts completely. He steps into your space, his large hands coming up to cup your face. His thumbs gently stroke your cheekbones.
âWhatever,â he murmurs, his voice dropping to a soft, intimate register. âI'm marriedâ
Your breath hitches, your heart doing a familiar, stupid little flip in your chest. Even after all these years, he still knows exactly how to render you speechless.
âYouâre such a sap,â you whisper, leaning into his touch.
âOnly for my wife,â he replies, leaning down to press a slow, deep kiss to your lips. Itâs a possessive kiss, one that clearly communicates to anyone watching exactly who he belongs to.
When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours, a small smile playing on his lips.
âMama!â
You both look down. Yuji is standing on the beach chair, holding up a slightly crushed, sandy seashell. He shoves it toward you, his big golden eyes shining.
You melt. You absolutely melt. You take the sandy shell, pulling Yuji into a tight hug and kissing his salty, sun-warmed cheek. âThank you, baby. Itâs beautiful.â
Sukuna watches the two of you, his hands resting casually on his hips. âSee?â Sukuna says quietly, reaching out to ruffle Yujiâs pink hair. âThe kid might have my charm, but he knows the truth.â
At the end of the day, despite the playboy genes and the endless chaos, they were yours. And you were theirs.
And mom was, undeniably, still the best.
an: we're close to 1k what the hekk!!! what one shots do you wanna see next? i can't write smut for the life of me, english is saurrrr hard!! divider by: @pxrce-lain | the art and gif i got from pinterest! feel free to comment who is the orig art creator pls đ
being tojiâs older sister comes with multiple disadvantages.
he treats you like his personal bank account, walks into your room just to fart or flex in your mirror, eats all your things, and calls you to pick him up at ungodly hours when heâs drunk.
the worst disadvantage, however?
his obsessed, annoying cocky little best friend.
although, as sukunaâs 6â4 tattoo muscular tank of a body slides into the backseat of your car, his smirk unmoving and cologne strongâ you were unsure âlittleâ was really the right adjective.
âyou know, driving you and your friends home when youâre drunk was an offer when you were eighteenâ not twenty two.â you muttered. toji only grunted, relaxing in his seat.
âshouldnât have offered at all, then.â he muttered, already drifting off to sleep. sukuna only poked his head between the two seats, red eyes on your face as you drove, smirk widening when toji spoke again. âsukunaâs staying over.â
âof course he is.â you muttered. sukuna only grinned, the action sharp and annoying, and toji only snorted loudly. once you two arrived to the apartment you shared with your brother, sukuna was dragging him upstairs, his eyes on you the entire time.
you ignored it, letting him struggle with getting your asshole of a brother into bed as you slid into your kitchen, pouring yourself a glass of water. by the time you were settled on the counter, taking your first sip, footsteps echoed until sukuna was joining you, his eyes flickering to you as he grabbed a glass for himself.
you slowly tilted your head. he was never that quiet. was he okay? oh, fuck, has he finally given up? were you finally freeâ
âtoji told me some guy bought you flowers.â sukuna finally spoke, voice deep, unamused. his pretty eyes narrowed. âyou rejected him, right? does he not know you have a husband at home?â
you almost choked on your water, wide eyes flickering to him, utterly flabbergasted. âhusband?â
âhusband.â he insisted. âi got tojiâs blessing.â
âkuna,â you started, oblivious to how the nickname made his eyes soften and ears flush. âyou really need to see someone about those delusions.â
âyouâre right,â he drawled out, stepping closer. âi should start seeing you.â
you sighed. he turned serious, his eyes darkening, stepping closer, palms firmly pressing against the counter on each side, frowning.
âhow long are you going to pretend I donât really want you?â he asked, voice low. âyouâre not stupid. you know this isnât a joke.â
you swallowed harshly at the change of mood, voice quietening. âkunaââ
âyou know i would do anything for you.â he cut you off, serious. âyou know how serious i amâ fuck, y/n, i have wanted you for years.â
you sucked in a sharp breath. he continued, voice growing more intense, almost desperate.
âyou know i would kneel and beg for you to give me a chance,â he murmured. âi would do absolutely anything for you. you used to use age as an excuse when we were kids, and it fucking haunted me. two years should never matter as muchâ but whatever. i was patient, i waited and waited, and âm a fucking man now, and you know it. i can handle itâ i can handle you. i will be the best fucking gentlemanâ i would be the perfect boyfriend for you.â
he leaned closer, enough for you to feel the heat of his body against yours.
âi fucking did everything.â he grunted. âyou hated cigarettes, so i quit. you said you didnât date losers, so i scored top grades, had a social life, and got l a fucking full-paid athletic scholarship. i never even touched another girlâ because no one could even compare to you. itâs always been you.â
he paused for a second, taking in a sharp breath, eyes fluttering shut. âi donât even care if you think itâs pathetic anymoreââ
he froze when your lips pressed against hisâ hard enough for him to shut up, yet gentle enough for him to absolutely melt against you. his hands were immediately on your waist, warm fingers practically shaking, a whimper escaping his lipsâ the sound so deep and desperate, almost as if you were air and he just learned what it was like to breathe. you pulled away, and almost grinned at the needy whine escaping his lips. his face was flushed, eyes slowly pushing open, breathing shaky.
âyouâre a horrible kisser.â you whispered softly. his cheeks flushed further, lips forming an embarrassed scowl.
âex-fucking-cuse me for saving myself for you,â he muttered, fingers holding into your waist more tightly, as if you would disappear if he didnât. he let his face drop into your neck, and breathed out as the realization settled in. âyou just kissed me.â
ââŠi did.â you whispered. âhad to shut you up.â
ââll talk forever if thatâs what it takes.â he mumbled. âfuck. that was everything i ever dreamed of and more. can we kiss again?â
âyouâre not gonna take me out a date first, mr. i-will-be-the-best-gentleman?â you teased, sliding a hand into his hair. his head snapped up, eyes wide.
âyouâre serious?â he grinned, looking more like a puppy who finally got his favorite toy more than a terrifying, tattooed frat boy who people were terrified of, a man twice your size. âoh, âll fucking spoil you. iâll treat you so good, youâll forget other men even exist. iâll buy you flowersâ fuck, âll buy you an entire fucking flowershopââ
âdo i need to kiss you again?â
his grin only widened, already leaning down eagerly. âyou ask that like i would ever be stupid enough to say no.â
me when im on "x reader tag" looking for fics at 3 am BUT all i find is memes and all the funny posts under the world EXCEPT the fics abt the character :
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sum. you're the sheriff's daughter, so you really know better than to step into saloons and talk to outlaws. however, you like the girls, so you bring them food â cowboys sometimes take advantage of that, but you're not bowing down to any men.
art. @winterrbluess | pt 2
The first thing you learn about cowboys is that they bleed like anybody else.
The second thing is that they bleed in places they donât want you to see.
Church lets out late, the kind of late that isnât measured by the sun so much as by the way folks linger on the steps to talk about whoâs sick, whoâs pregnant, whoâs lying, whoâs already dead and just hasnât been buried yet.
The air is sharp enough to make your nostrils sting when you inhale, and your fatherâs voice is still in your ear from the morning â stern as a nail, steady as the badge pinned to his vest.
Stay home after dark. Donât go near the saloon. Donât talk to drifters. Donât talk to cowboys.
As if cowboys are a sickness you can catch if one of them so much as looks at you wrong.
Your skirt swishes against your boots as you take the long way back, hands tucked into your shawl. The street lamps are weak little things, more promise than light. The town is quieter than it should be, but that happens when men are off âhandling land issuesâ and the women keep the doors latched, waiting for news that comes slow and ugly.
Youâre almost at the last stretch of boardwalk when you hear it â something wet and wrong, a scrape, the sound of a man trying not to make noise while failing at it.
You stop.
Every lesson your father has drilled into you rises up at once.
Behind the general store, where the alley narrows into shadow, thereâs a shape slumped against the wall. Heâs big enough that even collapsed he looks like heâs taking up too much space, like the night has to curve around him. Hat tipped low. Boots dusty. A dark coat hanging off one shoulder as if he doesnât know how to wear it anymore.
You take one step closer and the man lifts his head.
Even half-dead, he looks angry about it.
Crimson eyes catch the weak light and hold it, sharp and alive in a face smeared with sweat and dirt. Thereâs blood on his side â dark, sticky, soaking through his shirt in a slow bloom.
His jaw tightens like heâs biting back a sound. When he breathes, itâs shallow, careful, like each inhale costs him something he doesnât want to pay.
âGo.â he rasps.
It isnât a plea. Itâs an order. Like youâre one of his men and heâs not used to being ignored.
Your pulse thrums in your throat.
âYouâre hurt.â
âNo shit,â he spits, eyes narrowing. âSo go.â
You can smell him from here, leather, gun oil, whiskey thatâs baked into his skin. And underneath that, iron â blood, warm despite the cold.
Your feet hesitate anyway, stubborn in their own way.
You swallow hard.
âI know the sheriff.â you try, like that would somehow make this man trust you to know you can be of assistance.
It doesnât land as you plan, though.
He gives a short, humorless laugh that turns into a wince.
âYeah? Then he can come arrest me once Iâm done not dying.â
You should be offended, frightened, or at least do the sensible thing and back away like this man is a rattlesnake in the road.
Instead, you crouch at a careful distance, keeping your hands where he can see them.
âCan you stand?â
His mouth curls like youâve offered him a bedtime story.
âLady, I can do a lot of things.â
Then he tries â and his body betrays him with a shudder that goes through his shoulders and down to his hands.
His palm presses harder to his side, and you see fresh blood glisten between his fingers.
You donât think.
If you think, youâll run.
You close the space between you and slide your arm under his, bracing your shoulder against his ribs.
The man jerks, muscle tensing like heâs about to throw you off.
The barrel of a pistol is suddenly there, angled down but close enough that your stomach flips.
âTouch my holster and Iâll put you down.â he growls, voice low and vicious.
Your breath catches.
âIâm notâ I justâ you canâtââ you falter and scramble for words but you keep holding him as you are.
âDonât.â he warns, like thatâs the most important word in the world. âDonât get brave.â
Your hands hover away from his belt as if heâs fire.
âI wonât. I swear. Just⊠lean. Please.â
He stares at you like heâs deciding whether youâre stupid or dangerous.
Maybe both.
Then, with a sharp exhale through his nose, he shifts his weight onto you anyway, heavy and hot and real.
He smells like a man who sleeps outside when he canât find a bed, and like a man who rarely has to ask.
You manage to get him out of the alley and onto the street without anyone seeing, because God, apparently, enjoys a scandal but not tonight.
The walk to your fatherâs house is the longest walk youâve ever taken.
His boots drag sometimes. His breath turns harsh.
Once, his fingers dig into your shoulder hard enough to bruise and you almost gasp â but you bite it back, because you canât give him that satisfaction.
By the time you reach your porch, your arms are trembling.
He looks up at your house like itâs a trap with a nice coat of paint.
âYou live here?â he asks, and thereâs something ugly in it â something like disbelief that a place can be warm and still belong to you.
âYes,â you whisper. âPlease. Just for the night. Iâll⊠Iâll fix you up.â
His eyes flick over you, slow and sharp.
âYou should really know better, babe.â he grunts and it sounds like a warning and an advice at once, like you should think twice before attending to someoneâs wounds.
Like you should have left him there to his own luck and Godâs mercy.
The way he says babe makes it sound like an insult and a prayer both.
You blink.
âI donâtââ
âYou do,â he cuts in. âYou fuckinâ do.â
StillâŠ
You fumble with the door and get it open.
The warmth spills out, lamplight turning the porch boards gold.
He pauses right at the threshold like the line matters. Like he can feel it. Like his body remembers things his mouth wonât admit.
âWhy would you give me a hand,â he mutters, voice rough, his gaze locks on yours, his tone malicious. âhoney, youâre making this easy.â
You donât understand him.
As if heâs in any place to actually hurt you.
As if he could do anything to you in that terrible situation he found himself in.
You just tug him inside before your courage dies.
He moves like a predator forced into someone elseâs den, shoulders tight, eyes scanning the room as if measuring angles for violence.
When you guide him to the couch, he lets you â barely.
When you reach for his coat, he catches your wrist.
His grip is iron.
Your skin goes hot under his fingers.
âCareful,â he murmurs, and the threat in it is almost lazy. âYou donât know what youâre inviting.â
Your mouth is dry.
âYouâre bleeding on my fatherâs rug.â
That startles a sound out of him â half a laugh, half a breath.
âYeah.â
He releases you like youâre beneath his attention.
You pull his coat off first, then his shirt â slow, careful, your fingers trembling every time they brush skin.
Heâs built like heâs been carved out of hard work and bad choices.
Muscle cords under your palms. Scar tissue here and there, pale lines that catch the light. Sinews and muscles tightening when the pain bites.
And the tattoos â God.
They climb his throat and frame his jaw in black arcs, bold lines that make his face look even meaner.
They run down his chest in thick, intricate patterns, bands circling his biceps like cuffs.
Thereâs more on his shoulders, disappearing down his back.
The work is dark and deliberate, like someone marked him and he decided to keep the marks as a warning.
You donât stare.
You try not to.
He watches you anyway, eyes hooded, mouth set in a hard line as if heâs waiting for you to flinch.
You donât.
Not from the ink.
Not from the blood.
You clean the wound with shaking hands.
Itâs on the side of his torso, ugly but not as deep as it could be.
A bullet graze, maybe. Heâs lucky.
Or heâs the kind of man who makes his own luck by refusing to die.
When you wrap the bandage around his ribs, he hisses and his fingers clamp on the edge of the couch hard enough to make the wood creak.
âHold still.â you whisper.
âDonât tell me what to do in my fuckinâ misery,â he snaps, then sucks in a breath and forces himself to go still anyway.
You press the knot down, tight enough to hold.
Your hands linger for half a heartbeat too long.
Heat climbs up your throat, humiliating and fast.
You pull back like youâve been burned.
He notices. Of course he does. His eyes didnât leave you for a single second.
His mouth tilts, just slightly.
âYeah,â he murmurs, voice thick with something you hate that you canât name. âThatâs it. Look at me like Iâm a story you can keep.â
âIâm not,â you whisper, furious with yourself. âIâm just helping! Youâre hurt.â
âEveryoneâs hurt,â he groans like itâs obvious. âSome folks just get to hide it under lace and church hymns.â
You bring him water.
He drinks like he hasnât had any in days, throat working, eyes never leaving you.
When you offer him a fever tonic, he grimaces like heâd rather swallow nails â but he takes it, because his body is shaking and his skin is too hot under your palm when you press a damp cloth to his forehead.
His lashes lower.
For the first time, his face softens â not into kindness, never that, but into something exhausted.
âYou shouldnât be this kind,â he mutters, feverish, almost like heâs hallucinating â the words slurring at the edges. âJesus Christ⊠donât be kind to me.â
âIâm not.â you lie softly because you want him to rest.
He gives a weak, ugly chuckle.
âThatâs worse.â
His eyes drift shut.
You sit in the armchair near the couch, hands clasped in your lap so you donât reach for him again.
The house creaks around you.
The lamp flickers.
Your eyes rarely leave him. His broad chest rises and falls with heavy breathes, then shallow, and then regular.
You donât look at his holster again.
Outside, the wind scrapes at the window like fingers.
You watch him breathe until your own eyelids get heavy.
When you wake, itâs morning and your neck aches from sleeping crooked.
The lamp is burned down low.
The couch is empty.
His hat is gone.
His shirt is gone.
The bandage wrappers are folded neatly on the table as if heâs mocking you with manners.
The only proof he existed in your house at all is a dark smear on the rag you used to clean him and the faint, lingering scent of him â leather and smoke and something feral that doesnât belong inside four walls.
You stand there for a long time, staring at nothing.
Relief and disappointment twist together in your ribs until you canât tell them apart.
Days pass.
Your father returns, tired and grumbling, and you donât tell him.
You donât tell anyone.
It sits in you like a stone you keep turning over with your thumb when no oneâs looking.
Then, one afternoon when your father rides out again and the town breathes like itâs been holding itself too tight, you bake.
Apple pie. Cinnamon heavy. Crust flaky, the way Utahime likes it.
You wrap it in cloth, tuck it in a tin, and tell yourself itâs not rebellion â itâs just kindness.
Itâs just you being you.
Madam Mei Meiâs saloon sits at the edge of town, audacious, provocative.
Daring.
Music leaks out through the doors. Laughter. The sharp bite of whiskey and perfume and sweat. Men cluster outside like flies, hats tipped, eyes hungry.
You keep your chin up and walk right through them anyway.
Inside, itâs warmer than your father would approve of. Smokier. Louder. The piano player pounds out something rough and cheerful while women in bright dresses glide between tables carrying bottles and smiles that donât reach their eyes.
Mei Mei sees you and her face breaks into genuine delight.
âAh! Sheriffâs dove,â she calls, voice sharp and sweet. âYou bring food?â
You smile despite yourself and hold up the tin.
âFor you. For the girls!â
Utahime darts in from the side, hair pinned up, cheeks flushed from dancing. She hooks her arm through yours and squeezes.
âYouâre an angel,â she whispers into your ear, then grins wickedly. âOr a fool. Possibly both.â
You roll your eyes, but youâre laughing when it happens.
A man you donât recognize reaches out and grabs your arm.
Hard.
His fingers dig into your skin like youâre property heâs already paid for.
âWell, hello there,â he slurs, breath rancid with liquor. His eyes slide over you in a way that makes your stomach twist. âDidnât know Mei Mei had freshââ
You yank back, shocked.
âLet go.â
He tightens his grip.
âDonât play coyââ
Your heart stutters.
You raise your free hand to shove him, to slap him, to do something â anything.
A hand closes over the manâs wrist.
Not gentle. Definitely not polite.
Just there, firm as law, mean as consequence.
The drunkâs face contorts in pain as his arm is peeled away from you like it doesnât belong to him anymore.
He stumbles back â and then heâs shoved, hard, into the wall. Bottles clink. Someone laughs nervously. The piano falters for a beat and then keeps going like itâs learned better than to stop for violence.
The man pinning the drunk doesnât even look winded.
The cowboy who does it is broad in the shoulders, all heat and hard lines under dust-stained clothes. Pale pink hair spills out from under his hat in unruly strands, a color that looks almost wrong on a man built like that. Tattoos run like blackwork scripture along his jaw, over his cheekbones, down his throat â bold, deliberate lines that make him look branded by something that never apologized. Like trouble carved into a man.
His eyes lift to the drunk.
Crimson. Bright. Cruel in a way that doesnât bother dressing itself up
The same crimson youâve been trying not to dream about.
Alive now.
Clear.
Dangerous.
He leans in just enough to make his point private, voice low and profane.
âIf you grab another woman like that, Iâll take the hand you used and nail it to the goddamn door so you remember what itâs for.â
The drunkâs face drains.
He swallows, nods too fast, and slides away into the noise like the saloon swallowed him whole.
Sukuna releases him with a shove that sends him stumbling away.
The man doesnât argue.
He disappears into the crowd like he knows he just got spared out of boredom.
Sukuna turns to you.
His gaze drags over you the way the drunkâs did â except with Sukuna, it feels like youâre being weighed, measured, unimpressed by your clean collar and your good posture, like those things are costumes.
Like he can see whatâs under them anyway.
You feel claimed in some ugly private math you didnât agree to.
âWhat the hell are you doinâ in a place like this?â he asks.
No courtesy. No softening. Like you owe him an explanation for standing on the same floorboards.
You rub your arm where the drunk grabbed you, more annoyed than shaken, even if your pulse is still jumping in your throat.
âBringing a pie.â
He glances at the tin in your hands as if youâve only just remembered youâre holding it.
His mouth tightens.
âWho for?â he asks, tone skeptical.
âFor Mei Mei,â you say, then tilt the tin slightly. âAnd the girls. They like my baking.â
Something flickers behind his eyes.
Not gratitude â he really doesnât look like a man who knows what to do with that â but interest, sharp and reluctant.
âAnd what does your father think about you handinâ out sweets to a saloon full of whores and outlaws?â he drawls.
You lift your chin.
âMy father thinks a lot of things. He canât arrest me for this, anyway.â
Sukunaâs brow arches, like he didnât expect you to talk back.
âYouâre the sheriffâs girl,â he remarks, and the way he says it makes girl sound like a loaded weapon.
âYes,â you answer, steady. âAnd Iâm still allowed to have friends.â
He scoffs, mouth curling.
âFriends.â
âMei Meiâs been kinder to me than half the church women who smile and pray and talk about charity like itâs a prize,â you say. âSo yes. Friends.â
You expect him to laugh, or sneer, or call you naive.
Instead, he watches you a long beat, eyes narrowed like youâre a riddle thatâs irritating him.
Then he looks away first â like it costs him something to keep looking.
âDonât get grabbed again,â he grouses.
It lands like an order. Like again youâre one of his men.
Like heâs decided, without asking, that your safety is now part of the roomâs rules.
You donât step back. Your fingers tighten around the tin.
âI handled it.â
He turns his head, slow, and those red eyes pin you.
âHe handled you for a second.â
Your throat tightens. Heat crawls up your neck in a way you hate, because you refuse to be embarrassed by a strangerâs hands or a strangerâs attention.
You hold your ground anyway.
âAnd then you decided to show off.â
That gets a sound out of him â half a laugh, half a scoff â like youâve amused him by accident.
âYeah,â he murmurs. âSure. Thatâs what it was.â
Utahime appears at your elbow then, slipping between you and the noise, arm looping through yours like sheâs claiming you as hers.
âYou alright?â she asks softly.
âIâm fine,â you say, eyes still on Sukuna. You hate that your voice softens when you say it. âYou were going to die on my couch.â
His gaze flicks up, sharp. For a split second, something changes â so small you almost miss it.
Like he didnât expect you to say it out loud.
Like he didnât expect you to stand there and own it.
Then his expression hardens again, mean and familiar.
âShouldâve let me.â
Heâs already turning away, drifting back toward a table where a few hard-faced men sit with cards spread and whiskey poured.
They look up when he returns, grin at whatever story his posture tells.
He doesnât grin back, just drops into his chair like it belongs to him.
And still â before he reaches for his drink â his eyes cut back to you once.
Like heâs checking youâre still standing.
You deliver the pie to Mei Mei, accept her kisses on both cheeks, endure the teasing from the girls about how a man like that doesnât step in unless something matters.
You laugh it off.
You tell them to mind their tongues.
You still feel his gaze like a scorching brand between your shoulders.
Utahime slips once again to your side, eyes bright with gossip and relief after a while.
âThatâs Sukuna,â she whispers. âHeâs been staying here with his men when they ride through. Takes big jobs. Land disputes. Escort work. The kind that ends bloody. Heâsââ she grimaces. âHeâs filthy. In every way. Mean too. But he pays on time and he doesnât let men get grabby with the girls unless they want it.â
You swallow, watching Sukuna across the room.
Sukuna doesnât laugh with the other men at the table as they gamble, drink, talk loudly.
He watches.
Every so often, his gaze cuts back to you like a tether you didnât ask for.
You leave before sunset because youâre not stupid. Youâve been raised by a man who makes laws out of warnings.
It starts the way most bad ideas start â quietly, like itâs nothing.
You bring bread the next week. A whole loaf, warm from the oven, wrapped in cloth.
Mei Mei crows like youâve brought her gold. The girls descend on it like they havenât eaten real food in days, and you get scolded â gently â for not staying long enough to have a slice.
Sukuna and his men are there again.
Theyâre not always gambling. Sometimes theyâre cleaning their weapons at the table, oiling steel with steady hands. Sometimes theyâre eating like theyâve worked themselves hollow. Sometimes theyâre talking low about ranch boundaries and cattle stolen and which men deserve to disappear into the scrub without anyone asking questions.
Youâre not stupid.
You know what kind of work cowboys like that do.
And still â you bring food.
Not because of Sukuna.
Because Utahimeâs cheeks have gotten thinner. Because Mei Meiâs hands crack in the cold. Because youâve learned the church will pray for a woman starving and still cross the street to avoid her.
So you bring stew in a tin. Biscuits. Smoked sausage when you can get it. Pickled vegetables. Honey cake.
Whatever your fatherâs kitchen can spare when heâs gone and you can cook without him muttering that women who associate with saloons are asking for trouble.
Sometimes Sukuna ignores you.
Sometimes he looks up and says something crude just to see if itâll make you flinch.
The first time he does it, youâre setting down a basket of cornbread and heâs leaning back in his chair with his boots hooked on the rung, eyes half-lidded like a bored predator.
âWhatâs next, sweetheart?â he drawls. âYou gonna start spoon-feedinâ us like weâre a bunch of helpless bastards?â
You donât cower at his mean ways.
You set the basket down with a soft thunk and look him dead in the eye.
âIf youâre helpless, thatâs between you and God.â
A couple of his men choke on laughter.
Sukunaâs mouth twitches â annoyed, amused, something in between.
He looks you up and down like heâs cataloguing the fact you wonât bow just because his voice is rough.
âYou got a smart mouth.â he says.
âYou keep talking to me like Iâm stupid,â you reply, calm, âand youâll keep finding out Iâm not.â
His stare sharpens.
Your heart does that stupid little stumble itâs started doing around him, but you donât let it show in your posture. You feel timid under his gaze because his gaze is too much â because he looks like sin made into a man and made comfortable in his own skin â but youâre not fragile.
Youâre not a trembling church mouse.
Youâre a sheriffâs daughter.
Youâve seen blood.
Youâve learn how to handle a carbine and shoot moving targets.
Youâve heard screams.
Youâve watched your father hang a man and then eat supper like his hands werenât still stained.
Sukuna holds your eyes a long beat, then tips his chin once, like a concession he hates giving.
âAlright,â he mutters. âFine.â
Then he reaches for the cornbread like you made it specially for him to eat.
Weeks turn into months.
His presence becomes a season in the saloon â like winter, harsh, inevitable, and making everyone move differently.
The girls notice before you do.
One night you bring a tray of meat pies â smaller than your father likes, spiced heavier, made for hands that eat fast and get back to work.
Utahime nudges you with her elbow while youâre unwrapping them.
âHeâs in a better mood when you bring food,â she murmurs, eyes bright with the kind of gossip that keeps a girl alive.
You snort softly.
âHeâs in a better mood when heâs chewing.â
âNo,â she insists. âYouâre not listeninâ doll. Heâs⊠less mean.â
You glance over before you can stop yourself.
Sukunaâs at his table, same spot he always takes, back to the wall like he trusts no one behind him. Heâs got a glass in hand, cards on the wood, his men laughing at something that should probably be criminal. Sukuna isnât laughing â but his shoulders arenât as tight. His jaw isnât clenched. His eyes arenât scanning the room like heâs waiting for a reason to break someone.
Then his gaze lifts and catches you.
Just like that, you feel it â heat and awareness, like heâs hooked something under your ribs and tugged.
Your breath sticks for a moment.
He doesnât smile.
But his eyes soften a fraction, the way a storm does when it shifts direction instead of breaking.
Utahime hums smugly.
âTold you.â
You roll your eyes, cheeks warming.
âYouâre ridiculous, girl.â
âIâm observant,â she corrects, then leans closer. âAnd he watches you when you leave.â
You pretend you donât hear that part.
You bring the pies to Mei Meiâs counter, she insists you sit for a moment.
You do, because you like her and because you like the girls and because, deep down, you like the saloonâs honest warmth more than you like the churchâs cold virtue.
Thatâs when Sukuna appears at your elbow like heâs decided youâre part of the room now and heâs gracing you with his closeness.
He doesnât ask permission. He just stands there, close enough that you smell leather and smoke and the faint metallic edge of gun oil. His shadow falls over the counter.
Mei Meiâs eyes flick between you and him, sharp and amused.
She doesnât say a word.
She just goes back to counting coins like sheâs seen this play before.
Sukuna taps a knuckle against the counter.
âWhatâs that?â
âPies.â you answer, because you refuse to act flustered.
âWhat kind?â
You tilt your head.
âDo you always interrogate women about baked goods?â
His mouth curls.
âOnly the ones bringinâ âem.â
You lift the cloth, showing him.
âMeat pies. Spiced.â
His gaze drops to them, then lifts back to you.
âYou make âem?â
âYes.â
He leans in a fraction, voice lower.
âYou make âem for us now?â
Your spine straightens.
âI make them for the girls.â
âMm,â he murmurs, like he doesnât believe in for the girls. âAnd if we eat âem?â
You look him right in the eye.
âThen I hope you choke.â your gaze sharpens a fraction and your lips curl a little up with the little dose of poison in your tone. It just slips out before you can polish it.
The room around you feels like it goes quiet for a heartbeat â like everyone heard. One of his men snorts into his drink. Utahimeâs eyes go wide with delighted horror.
Sukuna stares at you, then lets out a rough laugh that sounds like it was dragged out of him against his will.
âChrist,â he mutters. âYouâre fun.â
You refuse to smile. Your eyes give you away.
He reaches behind him, grabs a bottle off a passing tray without asking, and sets it on the counter in front of you.
âA beer for the Lady.â he says, like heâs tossing a bone.
You blink.
âI didnât askââ
âI know,â he cuts in. âThatâs why itâs a gift, not a favor.â
You hesitate.
Youâre not really into alcohol, you prefer tea, sweet cider, not tasting bitterness on your tongue.
But youâre not about to refuse on principle.
You wrap your fingers around the bottle. His hand brushes yours as he releases it â calloused, warm.
Itâs nothing.
Itâs everything.
âThank you,â you say, quiet but firm.
His eyes narrow, like gratitude makes him uncomfortable.
âDonât make it weird.â he mutters.
You lift the bottle.
âToo late.â
You take a drink. The beer is cold and bitter and it burns going down. You swallow anyway, because youâre stubborn and because Sukunaâs eyes are on your throat like heâs tracking the movement.
He looks away first, jaw flexing.
You donât win often against men like him.
That feels like a win.
It becomes a pattern.
You stop by with food when your father rides out. You learn his schedule the way you learn weather â by watching, by listening, by understanding the rhythms that keep a household intact.
Sometimes Sukuna is there, fresh off work, dirt on his boots and blood on his knuckles like itâs just another kind of mud.
Sometimes heâs in the middle of a job negotiation with Mei Mei â sheâs got her own kind of power, and men like him respect power even if they curse at it.
Sometimes heâs outside, leaning against a post with a cigarette between his fingers, watching the street like heâs bored enough to start trouble just to feel alive.
And you â smart as you are, brave as you are â start to notice the way he shifts when you arrive.
Not softened. Not made gentle.
Just oriented.
Like the warmth of your presence is a thing his body recognizes even when his mind resists it.
He helps you without calling it help.
You catch a tray before it falls, and heâs already there with a hand under it, steadying, grumbling,
âWatch your damn hands,â like youâre the careless one.
A drunk decides youâre fair game again, and Sukuna doesnât even stand up â he just looks at the man and says something ugly and quiet that makes him pale and apologize like heâs seen God.
One afternoon Mei Mei asks you to carry a sack of flour into the back because her boy is out. You wrap your arms around it, lift, and nearly tip backward because youâre proud and the thing is heavier than you expected.
Sukunaâs hand closes on the sack. Effortless.
He takes it from you like youâre handing him a basket of feathers.
âYouâre gonna break your back.â he says.
âIâm stronger than I look.â
He snorts.
âSo am I.â
You tilt your head, eyes sliding over him on purpose this time â over the thickness of his shoulders, the corded muscle in his forearms, the way his shirt pulls tight across his chest.
You donât gawk. You donât drool. You just let him see youâre not blind.
âIâve noticed.â you say.
The corner of his mouth twitches.
He carries the flour into the back, sets it down, then turns like heâs going to walk away without another word.
You follow him a step.
âThank you.â
He pauses, shoulders going tight like youâve pressed on a bruise.
âYou keep sayinâ that,â he mutters without looking at you.
âBecause you keep doing things that deserve it.â
He finally turns. His eyes pin you down, red and sharp.
âYou gonna thank me right into a noose when your daddy finds out youâve been playinâ house with outlaws?â
You donât flinch. You lift your chin.
âIâm not playing house.â
His gaze drops to your mouth for half a second, then lifts back up.
âNo?â
âNo,â you say, voice steady even as your skin feels too hot. âIâm feeding people. Thereâs a difference.â
He takes a slow step closer.
Not enough to touch.
Enough that you feel him.
Like a storm edging toward your fence line.
âAnd what about me?â he asks, voice low.
You hold his gaze. Your heart pounds, but you donât step back.
âWhat about you?â
His eyes narrow, and you see it â the irritation, the hunger, the disbelief.
He hates that you can talk to him like this.
He hates that he wants you to keep talking.
âYouâre a kind woman,â he says, like itâs a charge.
âIâm a practical woman,â you correct.
He exhales through his nose, rough.
âSame damn thing.â
Then he turns and leaves you there with your hands clenched at your sides and your pulse too loud in your ears.
By the time spring comes, everyone in Mei Meiâs saloon knows you by name.
Some men try to charm you. Some try to buy you. Some try to scare you.
They learn quick that you belong to yourself.
And, whether you like it or not, they also learn thereâs a cowboy in the corner with red eyes who doesnât tolerate them thinking otherwise.
It isnât romantic.
It isnât even sweet.
Itâs territorial in the ugly, honest way men like Sukuna are territorial â like if something warm exists near him long enough, he starts to act like the cold doesnât have a right to take it.
Utahime tells you one night, half-laughing,
âHeâs never been this tolerable.â
You raise a brow.
âThatâs not a compliment.â
âItâs a miracle,â she insists. âAnd itâs you.â
You scoff.
âItâs the food.â
She bumps your shoulder.
âItâs you.â
You donât argue. You canât, not really, because youâve started to notice it too â the way Sukunaâs gaze follows you like itâs tethered.
The way his mouth softens when you make Mei Mei laugh.
The way he looks downright murderous when someone calls you sweetheart like itâs a right.
He buys you a beer now and then when heâs feeling generous, sliding it across the counter without ceremony.
You drink it even when you donât want it because refusing feels like breaking a strange, fragile truce.
You start to wonder â quietly, shamefully â what it would feel like to let him touch you on purpose.
Not the accidental brush of fingers. Not the steadying hand under a tray.
On purpose.
You donât tell anyone that thought lives in you.
You donât need them teasing you into sin.
Youâre doing fine walking toward it on your own.
Itâs late at night.
Your fatherâs been gone since afternoon, pulled out toward the edge of town by yet another dispute over fence lines and cattle and men who think law is something that happens to other people.
The house is quiet in the way it only gets when thereâs no masculine presence filling it with rules.
Youâre in your robe, hair loose, a book open in your lap you havenât read the same page of in twenty minutes because your thoughts keep wandering to a pair of crimson eyes and the taste of bitter beer.
Then thereâs a knock.
Measured. Certain.
You set the book down slowly, throat going tight. Your fingers curl around the edge of the table as you stand, bare feet whispering over the floorboards.
You donât ask who it is.
You already know.
When you open the door, cold air sweeps in, and there he is â Sukuna on your porch like heâs been carved out of the night and decided your house is where he wants to stand.
Hat low. Coat open. Gun belt heavy on his hips. Tattoos cutting dark lines across a face that looks like trouble made handsome on purpose.
Your eyes do what they always do first, roam his body for wounds.
Itâs instinct now, embarrassing and involuntary. You scan his side, his ribs, his hands.
He catches you doing it and scoffs.
âIâm not bleedinâ.â
âYou could be,â you shoot back, refusing to be shamed out of caring.
His brow lifts.
âYou always check men for holes when they show up at your door?â
âOnly the ones who have a habit of showing up half-dead,â you say, voice dry.
For a heartbeat, something like amusement crosses his face.
Then he steps forward.
He doesnât ask to come in.
He crosses the threshold like it doesnât exist.
It startles you â enough that you take a half-step back, eyes widening, a sharp inhale catching in your throat.
âThe hellââ you begin.
He turns on you, fast, and you feel the switch flip in the air. His gaze pins you, heavy and dark.
âDonât start talkinâ like youâre gonna pretend this is about manners.â he says, voice low.
Your pulse kicks. You force yourself to stand your ground, even as your body goes taut with the awareness of him in your space.
âThis is my house.â you remind him.
He takes another step, closing distance like itâs his favorite habit.
âI know.â he smirks.
Thereâs something in his tone that makes heat bloom under your skin.
Your hand tightens on the edge of the door.
âYou donât get toââ
âI do,â he cuts in, then his hand is on your waist, fingers wrapping around you like heâs already memorized the shape of you. The touch is rough, calloused, warm enough to make your breath shake.
You make a sound â half a yelp, half a betrayed exhale â that you immediately hate yourself for.
Sukunaâs mouth curls like heâs pleased he got it out of you.
Then his other hand slides up, cups your jaw, tilts your face up with practiced certainty.
âYou keep feedinâ people whoâd never bleed for you,â he murmurs, voice thick with something ugly and hungry. âYou keep lookinâ at me like Iâm a man you can fix.â
âI donâtââ
He kisses you.
Itâs hungry, like heâs been starving on purpose and decided heâs done being disciplined.
Your back hits the door, the wood solid against your shoulders. His body presses into yours â heat and muscle and the hard line of his belt. His mouth moves like he wants to take something from you, and when you open for him your whole spine lights up like youâve been waiting for the permission you never asked for.
Your hands fist in his shirt, dragging him closer because you canât help it â because youâre brave enough to want what you want.
His breath is rough against your cheek. He curses into your mouth, low and filthy, like the sound of your response offends him and thrills him at the same time.
You kiss him back.
Youâre done pretending youâre above it.
It turns messy fast â breathing too close, mouths bruising, the world narrowing to the press of him and the way your pulse is sprinting. When his teeth scrape your lower lip, you gasp, and he makes a sound that might be satisfaction or restraint.
His mouth drops to your jaw, then to the tender skin just below your ear, and your knees threaten to give.
Your fingers dig into his shoulders and youâre pressing against him harder than youâd like to think you are.
âSukunaââ
âYeah,â he growls, hands tightening on your waist. âThere you are.â
He lifts you like you weigh nothing.
Your breath catches, a scandalized little noise, and before your pride can recover your legs hook around his hips on pure instinct. Your arms slide around his neck, pulling him in because the heat of him is a drug and youâre not interested in sobriety.
His laugh is rough in your throat.
âBrave,â he murmurs, voice dark. âStill brave.â
âIâm not afraid of you,â you whisper, and itâs true in the strangest, most dangerous way.
His eyes flash, red and bright.
âYou should be.â
You kiss him again instead of arguing.
He carries you like heâs done it a hundred times, moving through your house with an ease that makes your skin prickle â like heâs been imagining the layout, like heâs been mapping your life from the outside for months.
He doesnât ask where your bedroom is.
He just finds it.
And youâre so tangled up in his mouth, in his hands, in the way his body pins you close without hurting you â just reminding you what he is â that you donât stop him.
You donât stop yourself.
He kicks the door shut behind him, and the sound echoes like a line crossed.
He sets you down at the edge of the bed, then stands over you, chest rising, eyes burning like youâre a sin heâs decided to commit sober.
You tilt your chin up, breath shaking, robe loosened at your throat, hair falling wild around your shoulders.
You should feel ashamed.
You donât. Not even a tad.
His hand slides into your hair, fist closing gently â possessive without pulling, a claim without cruelty.
His other hand cups your cheek, thumb dragging over your mouth like heâs memorizing the shape. His pad presses into the plush of your lower lip.
âYouâre gonna regret this,â he murmurs, voice low.
You swallow, eyes locked on his.
âMaybe.â
His mouth twists, something like approval flickering through the dark.
âSmart girl.â
You reach up, grip his shirt again, tug him down.
âThen shut up and kiss me.â
For a beat, he just stares â like he canât decide if he wants to laugh or ruin you for every decent man youâll ever meet.
Then he kisses you again, and the world narrows to heat and breath and the steady, relentless certainty of his hands.
And whatever comes after, what happens in the dark behind your closed door, feels like the kind of choice youâll live with â fully awake, fully wanting â because youâre not feeding a stray dog anymore.
Youâre letting a wolf into your bed.
@kearita once asked me to write something to Hozier's song, It Will Come Back, and here it is. I love cowboys, I love Sukuna, I had to eat my own hand not to make this into a fucking entire worldbuilding on wild west with slowburn and some bad angst. I hope you enjoy â„
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âȘ finding your husband ryomen sukuna talking to your baby when he thinks no one is around is something you'd never imagine seeing, yet here you wereâwalking in on quite the peculiar sight.
"i suppose you do look a bit like me."
the curious toddler residing in sukuna's arms merely tilts her head, a gummy smile overtaking her soft features as her pink curls fall to the side. she babbles, reaching for sukuna's thumb as he offers it to her mindlessly.
"but you can't even use the bathroom by yourself. you can't talk properly, you can't walk, can't read, or evenâfuck, don't bite me, you brat! i'm not even sure there's a brain inside your tiny head!" he scowls, gently swatting away your daughter's grabby hands as she reaches for him.
she coos quietly, deciding to curl up against his chest instead and go back to sucking on his thumb. sukuna winces just the slightest bit when her little mouth latches onto his skin and bites downâhardâbut he remembers your words from earlier, something about her teeth coming in? sukuna's not sure why that means she wants to chew every single thing in her vicinity (edible or not), but he supposes there's nothing he can do about it.
"you are also remarkably bold. do you think just anyone can bite me? your mother is an odd one, but i allow her to get away with it due to... special privileges. but you, little one, have no right. what have you given me besides sleepless nights, headaches, and a terribly sore thumb?"
the little girl blinks owlishly, and sukuna watches the way she continues chewing on his thumb as if it were no different from one of her regular bottles.
babies have terrible manners too. he's brought destruction and death to entire kingdoms with minimal effort, but a little pink haired girl who happened to inherit your annoyingly adorable smile is the thing he considers his weakness.
she pulls away suddenly, seemingly oblivious to sukuna's annoyance as her eyes narrow in childish determination
"dadda. up."
sukuna is silent for a full five seconds at the audacity of the little girl before he feels a gentle smack against his cheek.
"dadda. uppy!"
she holds her arms above her head with a whine, and sukuna has to physically restrain himself from spitting out every curse word under the sun as he grits his teeth and, for heaven's sake, complies with the one year old.
"i am nothing. i have been reduced to an absolute fool out of everything all because an insufferable littleâ"
something soft presses against his cheek. sukuna feels the wetness come a moment after, and he realizes just what your baby had done when he meets her eyes.
she had kissed his cheek.
wordlessly, she wriggles out of his arms and rolls onto her back, crawling to the other side of the bed and simply going back to playing with her toys. sukuna is still, quiet and quite literally stunned into silence.
slowly, he turns to look at the little girl. there's a sliver of drool running down her chin, and she yawns loudly before lazily tucking her cheek into the pillow on your side of the bed before her eyes flutter close. she breathes slowly, her little snores filling the silence soon enough as sukuna exhales sharply through his noseâfighting the urge to reach out and rub gentle circles on your daughter's back.
"i really hate babies."
you stand in the doorway where sukuna's back was facing you, head tilted with amusement as he speaks to no one in particular. you're about to speak up before you pause, watching him shift with a heavy sigh.
carefully, he lifts the blanket that laid strewn over the edge of the bed before draping it over your daughter's smaller frame. he stares at her for a moment longer, muttering and grumbling under his breath before he gently pulls her body closer to his chest and closes his own eyes with a huff
your eyes widen, a smile threatening to break onto your faceâwatching the grump place a tentative kiss onto your daughter's forehead was truly a heartwarming sight.
it was rare to see sukuna so soft. but it was quiet moments like this where he allowed that small, tucked away part of himself to breathe a little. and maybe the tenderness in his eyes would be nothing more than a mere flicker, a flame struggling to burn brighterâbut his eyes seemed to glitter in a wholly different light when he looked at the two of you.
you'll wake them up laterâfor now, you leave the room as quietly as you'd once entered it, closing the door behind you and allowing them to nap together for the afternoon.
discoholicmusic
amandla
stormborns
blakekathryn
