There is a very specific, highly entertaining phenomenon that occurs whenever you take your husband out in public. You like to call it the “Terror and Thirst” 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 6’4”, he is built like a heavyweight champion—broad shoulders, a thick chest, and a torso carved out of solid granite. He’s 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. It’s a fact that is currently not lost on the group of college girls sitting on a blanket about twenty yards away. They haven’t 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 isn’t you or your son. He’s a snob, plain and simple. He doesn’t smile at strangers, he doesn’t 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 doesn’t 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.
“You’re going to give those poor girls a complex, babe,” 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.
“Not my problem that they are annoying,” he says, his voice carrying easily over the sound of the crashing waves. “Besides, I only want one woman looking at me.”
You roll your eyes, though your cheeks heat up. “Smooth, Ryomen. Very smooth.”
“Dada! Splash!”
A tiny, high-pitched voice interrupts the moment. Yuji, currently sporting a pair of tiny black swim trunks that perfectly match his dad’s, is waddling furiously through the shallow water. He’s got a pair of bright orange floaties strapped to his chubby arms, his pink hair plastered to his forehead from the ocean spray.
Sukuna’s attention snaps to his son. He doesn’t say anything, just calmly wades deeper into the water, his massive hands reaching down to scoop the toddler up under the armpits.
“You want to splash, little man?” Sukuna asks quietly, his tone a low, soothing rumble.
“Yeah! Big splash!” 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 up—just high enough to make Yuji squeal with delight—and catches him effortlessly, dipping him down so his little toes drag through the water.
It’s 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 “big fishes” and the “salty water,” 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 Sukuna’s 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.
“Go to mama, buddy. Let her dry you off,” 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 girls—three of them, looking like they just stepped out of a swimsuit catalog—have set up their chairs near the shoreline.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you mutter, dropping your book. “Not again.”
Yuji’s 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.
“Sukuna,” you warn, pointing at your son. “Stop him.”
Sukuna doesn’t move. He just stands there, drying his chest with the towel, watching Yuji with a quiet, amused smirk. “Why? He’s on a mission.”
“He is two! He is literally a baby!” you hiss, standing up. “Why does he act like a frat boy on spring break?”
“Son't ask me,” 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. “Let the boy have fun, babe.”
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.
“Hi!” Yuji chirps loudly. “I Yuji!”
The girls immediately stop talking. They look down at the tiny, pink-haired toddler, and the collective swoon is almost audible.
“Oh my god, hi!” one of them coos, leaning forward. “Aren’t you just the cutest thing ever?”
“Pweety,” Yuji says, pointing a tiny finger at the girl’s sparkly bikini top. He then flexes his little arm, showing off a completely non-existent bicep. “Look! Strong like dada!”
“I can’t believe this,” you whisper, burying your face in your hands. Sukuna lets out a low, quiet chuckle next to you.
“You are a terrible influence,” you glare at him.
“Babe, I didn’t do anything,” Sukuna says, his voice completely deadpan, though his eyes are dancing with mirth. “I’m just standing here.”
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. “Come on, sweetie. Let’s go find your dad.”
She leads Yuji back toward your umbrella, her eyes locked entirely on Sukuna. She has that look—the look of a woman who thinks she’s about to shoot her shot with a single dad.
“Excuse me,” the girl says, her voice dropping into a sultry purr as she approaches. She completely ignores you, standing right in front of Sukuna. “Is this little guy yours? He wandered over to us.”
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 doesn’t 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.
“Dada! Pweety girl!” Yuji babbles, pointing at the woman.
Sukuna looks at the girl for one more second. It’s a look that clearly says, You are entirely beneath my notice.
“Thanks,” Sukuna says. His voice is quiet, but it carries a heavy, chilling finality that makes the girl flinch. “Come here buddy lets go to mama”
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. “You didn’t have to be so mean to her.”
“I wasn’t,” Sukuna scoffs, setting Yuji down on your beach chair. “I just didn’t care to speak to her.”
“She was totally hitting on you.”
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.
“Whatever,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a soft, intimate register. “I'm married”
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.
“You’re such a sap,” you whisper, leaning into his touch.
“Only for my wife,” he replies, leaning down to press a slow, deep kiss to your lips. It’s 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.
“Mama!”
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. “Thank you, baby. It’s beautiful.”
Sukuna watches the two of you, his hands resting casually on his hips. “See?” Sukuna says quietly, reaching out to ruffle Yuji’s pink hair. “The kid might have my charm, but he knows the truth.”
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 🙏
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being toji’s 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 he’s drunk.
the worst disadvantage, however?
his obsessed, annoying cocky little best friend.
although, as sukuna’s 6’4 tattoo muscular tank of a body slides into the backseat of your car, his smirk unmoving and cologne strong— you were unsure ‘little’ was really the right adjective.
“you know, driving you and your friends home when you’re drunk was an offer when you were eighteen— not twenty two.” you muttered. toji only grunted, relaxing in his seat.
“shouldn’t have offered at all, then.” 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. “sukuna’s staying over.”
“of course he is.” 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 free—
“toji told me some guy bought you flowers.” sukuna finally spoke, voice deep, unamused. his pretty eyes narrowed. “you rejected him, right? does he not know you have a husband at home?”
you almost choked on your water, wide eyes flickering to him, utterly flabbergasted. “husband?”
“husband.” he insisted. “i got toji’s blessing.”
“kuna,” you started, oblivious to how the nickname made his eyes soften and ears flush. “you really need to see someone about those delusions.”
“you’re right,” he drawled out, stepping closer. “i should start seeing you.”
you sighed. he turned serious, his eyes darkening, stepping closer, palms firmly pressing against the counter on each side, frowning.
“how long are you going to pretend I don’t really want you?” he asked, voice low. “you’re not stupid. you know this isn’t a joke.”
you swallowed harshly at the change of mood, voice quietening. “kuna—“
“you know i would do anything for you.” he cut you off, serious. “you know how serious i am— fuck, y/n, i have wanted you for years.”
you sucked in a sharp breath. he continued, voice growing more intense, almost desperate.
“you know i would kneel and beg for you to give me a chance,” he murmured. “i 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 much— but whatever. i was patient, i waited and waited, and ‘m a fucking man now, and you know it. i can handle it— i can handle you. i will be the best fucking gentleman— i would be the perfect boyfriend for you.”
he leaned closer, enough for you to feel the heat of his body against yours.
“i fucking did everything.” he grunted. “you hated cigarettes, so i quit. you said you didn’t 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 girl— because no one could even compare to you. it’s always been you.”
he paused for a second, taking in a sharp breath, eyes fluttering shut. “i don’t even care if you think it’s pathetic anymore—“
he froze when your lips pressed against his— 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 lips— 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.
“you’re a horrible kisser.” you whispered softly. his cheeks flushed further, lips forming an embarrassed scowl.
“ex-fucking-cuse me for saving myself for you,” he muttered, fingers holding into your waist more tightly, as if you would disappear if he didn’t. he let his face drop into your neck, and breathed out as the realization settled in. “you just kissed me.”
“…i did.” you whispered. “had to shut you up.”
“‘ll talk forever if that’s what it takes.” he mumbled. “fuck. that was everything i ever dreamed of and more. can we kiss again?”
“you’re not gonna take me out a date first, mr. i-will-be-the-best-gentleman?” you teased, sliding a hand into his hair. his head snapped up, eyes wide.
“you’re serious?” 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. “oh, ‘ll fucking spoil you. i’ll treat you so good, you’ll forget other men even exist. i’ll buy you flowers— fuck, ‘ll buy you an entire fucking flowershop—“
“do i need to kiss you again?”
his grin only widened, already leaning down eagerly. “you ask that like i would ever be stupid enough to say no.”
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 — 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 don’t want you to see.
Church lets out late, the kind of late that isn’t measured by the sun so much as by the way folks linger on the steps to talk about who’s sick, who’s pregnant, who’s lying, who’s already dead and just hasn’t been buried yet.
The air is sharp enough to make your nostrils sting when you inhale, and your father’s voice is still in your ear from the morning — stern as a nail, steady as the badge pinned to his vest.
Stay home after dark. Don’t go near the saloon. Don’t talk to drifters. Don’t 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 “handling land issues” and the women keep the doors latched, waiting for news that comes slow and ugly.
You’re almost at the last stretch of boardwalk when you hear it — 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, there’s a shape slumped against the wall. He’s big enough that even collapsed he looks like he’s 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 doesn’t 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. There’s blood on his side — dark, sticky, soaking through his shirt in a slow bloom.
His jaw tightens like he’s biting back a sound. When he breathes, it’s shallow, careful, like each inhale costs him something he doesn’t want to pay.
“Go.” he rasps.
It isn’t a plea. It’s an order. Like you’re one of his men and he’s not used to being ignored.
Your pulse thrums in your throat.
“You’re hurt.”
“No shit,” he spits, eyes narrowing. “So go.”
You can smell him from here, leather, gun oil, whiskey that’s baked into his skin. And underneath that, iron — blood, warm despite the cold.
Your feet hesitate anyway, stubborn in their own way.
You swallow hard.
“I know the sheriff.” you try, like that would somehow make this man trust you to know you can be of assistance.
It doesn’t land as you plan, though.
He gives a short, humorless laugh that turns into a wince.
“Yeah? Then he can come arrest me once I’m done not dying.”
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.
“Can you stand?”
His mouth curls like you’ve offered him a bedtime story.
“Lady, I can do a lot of things.”
Then he tries — 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 don’t think.
If you think, you’ll 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 he’s about to throw you off.
The barrel of a pistol is suddenly there, angled down but close enough that your stomach flips.
“Touch my holster and I’ll put you down.” he growls, voice low and vicious.
Your breath catches.
“I’m not— I just— you can’t—” you falter and scramble for words but you keep holding him as you are.
“Don’t.” he warns, like that’s the most important word in the world. “Don’t get brave.”
Your hands hover away from his belt as if he’s fire.
“I won’t. I swear. Just… lean. Please.”
He stares at you like he’s deciding whether you’re 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 can’t 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 father’s house is the longest walk you’ve 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 — but you bite it back, because you can’t give him that satisfaction.
By the time you reach your porch, your arms are trembling.
He looks up at your house like it’s a trap with a nice coat of paint.
“You live here?” he asks, and there’s something ugly in it — something like disbelief that a place can be warm and still belong to you.
“Yes,” you whisper. “Please. Just for the night. I’ll… I’ll fix you up.”
His eyes flick over you, slow and sharp.
“You should really know better, babe.” he grunts and it sounds like a warning and an advice at once, like you should think twice before attending to someone’s wounds.
Like you should have left him there to his own luck and God’s mercy.
The way he says babe makes it sound like an insult and a prayer both.
You blink.
“I don’t—”
“You do,” he cuts in. “You fuckin’ do.”
Still…
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 won’t admit.
“Why would you give me a hand,” he mutters, voice rough, his gaze locks on yours, his tone malicious. “honey, you’re making this easy.”
You don’t understand him.
As if he’s 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 else’s den, shoulders tight, eyes scanning the room as if measuring angles for violence.
When you guide him to the couch, he lets you — barely.
When you reach for his coat, he catches your wrist.
His grip is iron.
Your skin goes hot under his fingers.
“Careful,” he murmurs, and the threat in it is almost lazy. “You don’t know what you’re inviting.”
Your mouth is dry.
“You’re bleeding on my father’s rug.”
That startles a sound out of him — half a laugh, half a breath.
“Yeah.”
He releases you like you’re beneath his attention.
You pull his coat off first, then his shirt — slow, careful, your fingers trembling every time they brush skin.
He’s built like he’s 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 — 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.
There’s 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 don’t stare.
You try not to.
He watches you anyway, eyes hooded, mouth set in a hard line as if he’s waiting for you to flinch.
You don’t.
Not from the ink.
Not from the blood.
You clean the wound with shaking hands.
It’s on the side of his torso, ugly but not as deep as it could be.
A bullet graze, maybe. He’s lucky.
Or he’s 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.
“Hold still.” you whisper.
“Don’t tell me what to do in my fuckin’ misery,” 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 you’ve been burned.
He notices. Of course he does. His eyes didn’t leave you for a single second.
His mouth tilts, just slightly.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice thick with something you hate that you can’t name. “That’s it. Look at me like I’m a story you can keep.”
“I’m not,” you whisper, furious with yourself. “I’m just helping! You’re hurt.”
“Everyone’s hurt,” he groans like it’s obvious. “Some folks just get to hide it under lace and church hymns.”
You bring him water.
He drinks like he hasn’t had any in days, throat working, eyes never leaving you.
When you offer him a fever tonic, he grimaces like he’d rather swallow nails — 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 — not into kindness, never that, but into something exhausted.
“You shouldn’t be this kind,” he mutters, feverish, almost like he’s hallucinating — the words slurring at the edges. “Jesus Christ… don’t be kind to me.”
“I’m not.” you lie softly because you want him to rest.
He gives a weak, ugly chuckle.
“That’s worse.”
His eyes drift shut.
You sit in the armchair near the couch, hands clasped in your lap so you don’t 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 don’t 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, it’s 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 he’s 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 — leather and smoke and something feral that doesn’t belong inside four walls.
You stand there for a long time, staring at nothing.
Relief and disappointment twist together in your ribs until you can’t tell them apart.
Days pass.
Your father returns, tired and grumbling, and you don’t tell him.
You don’t tell anyone.
It sits in you like a stone you keep turning over with your thumb when no one’s looking.
Then, one afternoon when your father rides out again and the town breathes like it’s 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 it’s not rebellion — it’s just kindness.
It’s just you being you.
Madam Mei Mei’s 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, it’s 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 don’t reach their eyes.
Mei Mei sees you and her face breaks into genuine delight.
“Ah! Sheriff’s dove,” she calls, voice sharp and sweet. “You bring food?”
You smile despite yourself and hold up the tin.
“For you. For the girls!”
Utahime darts in from the side, hair pinned up, cheeks flushed from dancing. She hooks her arm through yours and squeezes.
“You’re an angel,” she whispers into your ear, then grins wickedly. “Or a fool. Possibly both.”
You roll your eyes, but you’re laughing when it happens.
A man you don’t recognize reaches out and grabs your arm.
Hard.
His fingers dig into your skin like you’re property he’s already paid for.
“Well, hello there,” he slurs, breath rancid with liquor. His eyes slide over you in a way that makes your stomach twist. “Didn’t know Mei Mei had fresh—”
You yank back, shocked.
“Let go.”
He tightens his grip.
“Don’t play coy—”
Your heart stutters.
You raise your free hand to shove him, to slap him, to do something — anything.
A hand closes over the man’s wrist.
Not gentle. Definitely not polite.
Just there, firm as law, mean as consequence.
The drunk’s face contorts in pain as his arm is peeled away from you like it doesn’t belong to him anymore.
He stumbles back — and then he’s shoved, hard, into the wall. Bottles clink. Someone laughs nervously. The piano falters for a beat and then keeps going like it’s learned better than to stop for violence.
The man pinning the drunk doesn’t 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 — 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 doesn’t bother dressing itself up
The same crimson you’ve been trying not to dream about.
Alive now.
Clear.
Dangerous.
He leans in just enough to make his point private, voice low and profane.
“If you grab another woman like that, I’ll take the hand you used and nail it to the goddamn door so you remember what it’s for.”
The drunk’s 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 doesn’t 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 drunk’s did — except with Sukuna, it feels like you’re being weighed, measured, unimpressed by your clean collar and your good posture, like those things are costumes.
Like he can see what’s under them anyway.
You feel claimed in some ugly private math you didn’t agree to.
“What the hell are you doin’ in a place like this?” 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.
“Bringing a pie.”
He glances at the tin in your hands as if you’ve only just remembered you’re holding it.
His mouth tightens.
“Who for?” he asks, tone skeptical.
“For Mei Mei,” you say, then tilt the tin slightly. “And the girls. They like my baking.”
Something flickers behind his eyes.
Not gratitude — he really doesn’t look like a man who knows what to do with that — but interest, sharp and reluctant.
“And what does your father think about you handin’ out sweets to a saloon full of whores and outlaws?” he drawls.
You lift your chin.
“My father thinks a lot of things. He can’t arrest me for this, anyway.”
Sukuna’s brow arches, like he didn’t expect you to talk back.
“You’re the sheriff’s girl,” he remarks, and the way he says it makes girl sound like a loaded weapon.
“Yes,” you answer, steady. “And I’m still allowed to have friends.”
He scoffs, mouth curling.
“Friends.”
“Mei Mei’s been kinder to me than half the church women who smile and pray and talk about charity like it’s a prize,” you say. “So yes. Friends.”
You expect him to laugh, or sneer, or call you naive.
Instead, he watches you a long beat, eyes narrowed like you’re a riddle that’s irritating him.
Then he looks away first — like it costs him something to keep looking.
“Don’t get grabbed again,” he grouses.
It lands like an order. Like again you’re one of his men.
Like he’s decided, without asking, that your safety is now part of the room’s rules.
You don’t step back. Your fingers tighten around the tin.
“I handled it.”
He turns his head, slow, and those red eyes pin you.
“He handled you for a second.”
Your throat tightens. Heat crawls up your neck in a way you hate, because you refuse to be embarrassed by a stranger’s hands or a stranger’s attention.
You hold your ground anyway.
“And then you decided to show off.”
That gets a sound out of him — half a laugh, half a scoff — like you’ve amused him by accident.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Sure. That’s what it was.”
Utahime appears at your elbow then, slipping between you and the noise, arm looping through yours like she’s claiming you as hers.
“You alright?” she asks softly.
“I’m fine,” you say, eyes still on Sukuna. You hate that your voice softens when you say it. “You were going to die on my couch.”
His gaze flicks up, sharp. For a split second, something changes — so small you almost miss it.
Like he didn’t expect you to say it out loud.
Like he didn’t expect you to stand there and own it.
Then his expression hardens again, mean and familiar.
“Should’ve let me.”
He’s 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 doesn’t grin back, just drops into his chair like it belongs to him.
And still — before he reaches for his drink — his eyes cut back to you once.
Like he’s checking you’re 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 doesn’t 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.
“That’s Sukuna,” she whispers. “He’s been staying here with his men when they ride through. Takes big jobs. Land disputes. Escort work. The kind that ends bloody. He’s—” she grimaces. “He’s filthy. In every way. Mean too. But he pays on time and he doesn’t let men get grabby with the girls unless they want it.”
You swallow, watching Sukuna across the room.
Sukuna doesn’t 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 didn’t ask for.
You leave before sunset because you’re not stupid. You’ve been raised by a man who makes laws out of warnings.
It starts the way most bad ideas start — quietly, like it’s nothing.
You bring bread the next week. A whole loaf, warm from the oven, wrapped in cloth.
Mei Mei crows like you’ve brought her gold. The girls descend on it like they haven’t eaten real food in days, and you get scolded — gently — for not staying long enough to have a slice.
Sukuna and his men are there again.
They’re not always gambling. Sometimes they’re cleaning their weapons at the table, oiling steel with steady hands. Sometimes they’re eating like they’ve worked themselves hollow. Sometimes they’re talking low about ranch boundaries and cattle stolen and which men deserve to disappear into the scrub without anyone asking questions.
You’re not stupid.
You know what kind of work cowboys like that do.
And still — you bring food.
Not because of Sukuna.
Because Utahime’s cheeks have gotten thinner. Because Mei Mei’s hands crack in the cold. Because you’ve 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 father’s kitchen can spare when he’s 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 it’ll make you flinch.
The first time he does it, you’re setting down a basket of cornbread and he’s leaning back in his chair with his boots hooked on the rung, eyes half-lidded like a bored predator.
“What’s next, sweetheart?” he drawls. “You gonna start spoon-feedin’ us like we’re a bunch of helpless bastards?”
You don’t cower at his mean ways.
You set the basket down with a soft thunk and look him dead in the eye.
“If you’re helpless, that’s between you and God.”
A couple of his men choke on laughter.
Sukuna’s mouth twitches — annoyed, amused, something in between.
He looks you up and down like he’s cataloguing the fact you won’t bow just because his voice is rough.
“You got a smart mouth.” he says.
“You keep talking to me like I’m stupid,” you reply, calm, “and you’ll keep finding out I’m not.”
His stare sharpens.
Your heart does that stupid little stumble it’s started doing around him, but you don’t let it show in your posture. You feel timid under his gaze because his gaze is too much — because he looks like sin made into a man and made comfortable in his own skin — but you’re not fragile.
You’re not a trembling church mouse.
You’re a sheriff’s daughter.
You’ve seen blood.
You’ve learn how to handle a carbine and shoot moving targets.
You’ve heard screams.
You’ve watched your father hang a man and then eat supper like his hands weren’t still stained.
Sukuna holds your eyes a long beat, then tips his chin once, like a concession he hates giving.
“Alright,” he mutters. “Fine.”
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 — like winter, harsh, inevitable, and making everyone move differently.
The girls notice before you do.
One night you bring a tray of meat pies — 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 you’re unwrapping them.
“He’s in a better mood when you bring food,” she murmurs, eyes bright with the kind of gossip that keeps a girl alive.
You snort softly.
“He’s in a better mood when he’s chewing.”
“No,” she insists. “You’re not listenin’ doll. He’s… less mean.”
You glance over before you can stop yourself.
Sukuna’s at his table, same spot he always takes, back to the wall like he trusts no one behind him. He’s got a glass in hand, cards on the wood, his men laughing at something that should probably be criminal. Sukuna isn’t laughing — but his shoulders aren’t as tight. His jaw isn’t clenched. His eyes aren’t scanning the room like he’s waiting for a reason to break someone.
Then his gaze lifts and catches you.
Just like that, you feel it — heat and awareness, like he’s hooked something under your ribs and tugged.
Your breath sticks for a moment.
He doesn’t smile.
But his eyes soften a fraction, the way a storm does when it shifts direction instead of breaking.
Utahime hums smugly.
“Told you.”
You roll your eyes, cheeks warming.
“You’re ridiculous, girl.”
“I’m observant,” she corrects, then leans closer. “And he watches you when you leave.”
You pretend you don’t hear that part.
You bring the pies to Mei Mei’s 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 saloon’s honest warmth more than you like the church’s cold virtue.
That’s when Sukuna appears at your elbow like he’s decided you’re part of the room now and he’s gracing you with his closeness.
He doesn’t 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 Mei’s eyes flick between you and him, sharp and amused.
She doesn’t say a word.
She just goes back to counting coins like she’s seen this play before.
Sukuna taps a knuckle against the counter.
“What’s that?”
“Pies.” you answer, because you refuse to act flustered.
“What kind?”
You tilt your head.
“Do you always interrogate women about baked goods?”
His mouth curls.
“Only the ones bringin’ ‘em.”
You lift the cloth, showing him.
“Meat pies. Spiced.”
His gaze drops to them, then lifts back to you.
“You make ‘em?”
“Yes.”
He leans in a fraction, voice lower.
“You make ‘em for us now?”
Your spine straightens.
“I make them for the girls.”
“Mm,” he murmurs, like he doesn’t believe in for the girls. “And if we eat ‘em?”
You look him right in the eye.
“Then I hope you choke.” 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 — like everyone heard. One of his men snorts into his drink. Utahime’s 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.
“Christ,” he mutters. “You’re fun.”
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.
“A beer for the Lady.” he says, like he’s tossing a bone.
You blink.
“I didn’t ask—”
“I know,” he cuts in. “That’s why it’s a gift, not a favor.”
You hesitate.
You’re not really into alcohol, you prefer tea, sweet cider, not tasting bitterness on your tongue.
But you’re not about to refuse on principle.
You wrap your fingers around the bottle. His hand brushes yours as he releases it — calloused, warm.
It’s nothing.
It’s everything.
“Thank you,” you say, quiet but firm.
His eyes narrow, like gratitude makes him uncomfortable.
“Don’t make it weird.” he mutters.
You lift the bottle.
“Too late.”
You take a drink. The beer is cold and bitter and it burns going down. You swallow anyway, because you’re stubborn and because Sukuna’s eyes are on your throat like he’s tracking the movement.
He looks away first, jaw flexing.
You don’t 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 — 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 it’s just another kind of mud.
Sometimes he’s in the middle of a job negotiation with Mei Mei — she’s got her own kind of power, and men like him respect power even if they curse at it.
Sometimes he’s outside, leaning against a post with a cigarette between his fingers, watching the street like he’s bored enough to start trouble just to feel alive.
And you — smart as you are, brave as you are — 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 he’s already there with a hand under it, steadying, grumbling,
“Watch your damn hands,” like you’re the careless one.
A drunk decides you’re fair game again, and Sukuna doesn’t even stand up — he just looks at the man and says something ugly and quiet that makes him pale and apologize like he’s 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 you’re proud and the thing is heavier than you expected.
Sukuna’s hand closes on the sack. Effortless.
He takes it from you like you’re handing him a basket of feathers.
“You’re gonna break your back.” he says.
“I’m stronger than I look.”
He snorts.
“So am I.”
You tilt your head, eyes sliding over him on purpose this time — over the thickness of his shoulders, the corded muscle in his forearms, the way his shirt pulls tight across his chest.
You don’t gawk. You don’t drool. You just let him see you’re not blind.
“I’ve noticed.” you say.
The corner of his mouth twitches.
He carries the flour into the back, sets it down, then turns like he’s going to walk away without another word.
You follow him a step.
“Thank you.”
He pauses, shoulders going tight like you’ve pressed on a bruise.
“You keep sayin’ that,” he mutters without looking at you.
“Because you keep doing things that deserve it.”
He finally turns. His eyes pin you down, red and sharp.
“You gonna thank me right into a noose when your daddy finds out you’ve been playin’ house with outlaws?”
You don’t flinch. You lift your chin.
“I’m not playing house.”
His gaze drops to your mouth for half a second, then lifts back up.
“No?”
“No,” you say, voice steady even as your skin feels too hot. “I’m feeding people. There’s a difference.”
He takes a slow step closer.
Not enough to touch.
Enough that you feel him.
Like a storm edging toward your fence line.
“And what about me?” he asks, voice low.
You hold his gaze. Your heart pounds, but you don’t step back.
“What about you?”
His eyes narrow, and you see it — 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.
“You’re a kind woman,” he says, like it’s a charge.
“I’m a practical woman,” you correct.
He exhales through his nose, rough.
“Same damn thing.”
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 Mei’s 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 there’s a cowboy in the corner with red eyes who doesn’t tolerate them thinking otherwise.
It isn’t romantic.
It isn’t even sweet.
It’s territorial in the ugly, honest way men like Sukuna are territorial — like if something warm exists near him long enough, he starts to act like the cold doesn’t have a right to take it.
Utahime tells you one night, half-laughing,
“He’s never been this tolerable.”
You raise a brow.
“That’s not a compliment.”
“It’s a miracle,” she insists. “And it’s you.”
You scoff.
“It’s the food.”
She bumps your shoulder.
“It’s you.”
You don’t argue. You can’t, not really, because you’ve started to notice it too — the way Sukuna’s gaze follows you like it’s tethered.
The way his mouth softens when you make Mei Mei laugh.
The way he looks downright murderous when someone calls you sweetheart like it’s a right.
He buys you a beer now and then when he’s feeling generous, sliding it across the counter without ceremony.
You drink it even when you don’t want it because refusing feels like breaking a strange, fragile truce.
You start to wonder — quietly, shamefully — 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 don’t tell anyone that thought lives in you.
You don’t need them teasing you into sin.
You’re doing fine walking toward it on your own.
It’s late at night.
Your father’s 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 there’s no masculine presence filling it with rules.
You’re in your robe, hair loose, a book open in your lap you haven’t 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 there’s 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 don’t ask who it is.
You already know.
When you open the door, cold air sweeps in, and there he is — Sukuna on your porch like he’s 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.
It’s instinct now, embarrassing and involuntary. You scan his side, his ribs, his hands.
He catches you doing it and scoffs.
“I’m not bleedin’.”
“You could be,” you shoot back, refusing to be shamed out of caring.
His brow lifts.
“You always check men for holes when they show up at your door?”
“Only the ones who have a habit of showing up half-dead,” you say, voice dry.
For a heartbeat, something like amusement crosses his face.
Then he steps forward.
He doesn’t ask to come in.
He crosses the threshold like it doesn’t exist.
It startles you — enough that you take a half-step back, eyes widening, a sharp inhale catching in your throat.
“The hell—” you begin.
He turns on you, fast, and you feel the switch flip in the air. His gaze pins you, heavy and dark.
“Don’t start talkin’ like you’re gonna pretend this is about manners.” 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.
“This is my house.” you remind him.
He takes another step, closing distance like it’s his favorite habit.
“I know.” he smirks.
There’s something in his tone that makes heat bloom under your skin.
Your hand tightens on the edge of the door.
“You don’t get to—”
“I do,” he cuts in, then his hand is on your waist, fingers wrapping around you like he’s already memorized the shape of you. The touch is rough, calloused, warm enough to make your breath shake.
You make a sound — half a yelp, half a betrayed exhale — that you immediately hate yourself for.
Sukuna’s mouth curls like he’s pleased he got it out of you.
Then his other hand slides up, cups your jaw, tilts your face up with practiced certainty.
“You keep feedin’ people who’d never bleed for you,” he murmurs, voice thick with something ugly and hungry. “You keep lookin’ at me like I’m a man you can fix.”
“I don’t—”
He kisses you.
It’s hungry, like he’s been starving on purpose and decided he’s done being disciplined.
Your back hits the door, the wood solid against your shoulders. His body presses into yours — 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 you’ve been waiting for the permission you never asked for.
Your hands fist in his shirt, dragging him closer because you can’t help it — because you’re 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.
You’re done pretending you’re above it.
It turns messy fast — 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 you’re pressing against him harder than you’d like to think you are.
“Sukuna—”
“Yeah,” he growls, hands tightening on your waist. “There you are.”
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 you’re not interested in sobriety.
His laugh is rough in your throat.
“Brave,” he murmurs, voice dark. “Still brave.”
“I’m not afraid of you,” you whisper, and it’s true in the strangest, most dangerous way.
His eyes flash, red and bright.
“You should be.”
You kiss him again instead of arguing.
He carries you like he’s done it a hundred times, moving through your house with an ease that makes your skin prickle — like he’s been imagining the layout, like he’s been mapping your life from the outside for months.
He doesn’t ask where your bedroom is.
He just finds it.
And you’re so tangled up in his mouth, in his hands, in the way his body pins you close without hurting you — just reminding you what he is — that you don’t stop him.
You don’t 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 you’re a sin he’s 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 don’t. Not even a tad.
His hand slides into your hair, fist closing gently — possessive without pulling, a claim without cruelty.
His other hand cups your cheek, thumb dragging over your mouth like he’s memorizing the shape. His pad presses into the plush of your lower lip.
“You’re gonna regret this,” he murmurs, voice low.
You swallow, eyes locked on his.
“Maybe.”
His mouth twists, something like approval flickering through the dark.
“Smart girl.”
You reach up, grip his shirt again, tug him down.
“Then shut up and kiss me.”
For a beat, he just stares — like he can’t decide if he wants to laugh or ruin you for every decent man you’ll 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 you’ll live with — fully awake, fully wanting — because you’re not feeding a stray dog anymore.
You’re 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 ♥
↪ 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 were—walking 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 even—fuck, 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 down—hard—but 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 little—"
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 nose—fighting 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 face—watching 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 brighter—but his eyes seemed to glitter in a wholly different light when he looked at the two of you.
you'll wake them up later—for 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.
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming