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𖦹 house of bruises || r. sukuna - Thursday
𖦹 one more night || r. sukuna - Monday
𖦹 softer than a secret || r. sukuna - Sunday
Coming Soon
𖦹 the love he learned || r. sukuna x f!reader x k. nanami - September 2026
𖦹 a home written in us || r. sukuna
my personal favorite
𖦹 ashes at the tree line - r. sukuna
𖦹 words unspoken || r. sukuna
𖦹 the good wife || r. sukuna
𖦹 where ruin learned to bloom || r. sukuna
𖦹 the love he learned || r. sukuna x f!reader x k. nanami (coming soon)
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She was twenty, serving whiskey at a company dinner. He was forty-three, divorced, guarded, and far too old to be looking at her the way he did. One reckless night was supposed to be the end of it. Instead, it became the beginning of an unusual romance neither of them knew how to explain—and neither of them was willing to walk away from.
The first month at the publishing company was nothing like the internship.
As an intern, you had been busy.
As a full-time editorial assistant, you were drowning.
The company had officially hired you less than two weeks after graduation, offering you a permanent position in the editorial department where you had already spent the final year of your master’s program. You accepted before the hiring manager finished explaining the benefits.
The work was exactly what you had wanted.
Manuscripts.
Developmental notes.
Author correspondence.
Line edits that required you to stare at the same sentence until every word stopped looking real.
You loved it.
You were also exhausted.
Your boss, Yuki Tsukumo, was one of the most intimidating women you had ever met.
Not because she was cruel.
Yuki was warm when she wanted to be, funny in an unpredictable way, and entirely capable of walking into the office wearing sunglasses and carrying breakfast for everyone after sending six emails before seven in the morning.
But she was brilliant.
She read faster than anyone you knew and possessed the disturbing ability to find the weakest section of a manuscript within minutes. Authors either loved her or feared her. Sometimes both.
On your third official day, she dropped a four-hundred-page fantasy novel onto your desk.
You stared at it.
She smiled.
“Needs work.”
“How much work?”
“All of it.”
Your stomach dropped.
Yuki leaned one hip against your desk.
“The premise is good. The protagonist is interesting. The middle is bloated, the romance is unconvincing, and the ending reads like the author remembered the deadline existed.”
You looked at the manuscript.
“When do you need notes?”
“Friday.”
It was Tuesday.
You looked back at her.
Yuki’s smile widened.
“You’ll be fine.”
That became her favorite phrase.
You’ll be fine.
When she handed you three chapters to line edit before lunch.
When an author replied to your suggestions with a seven-paragraph email explaining why punctuation was a form of artistic oppression.
When you accidentally scheduled two calls at the same time and spent twenty minutes moving between conference rooms like someone hiding from the police.
Yuki never treated you like a child.
She never made you feel as though Sukuna’s money or your age mattered more than your work. She expected a great deal from you because she believed you could produce it.
You wanted to prove her right.
So you stayed late.
You answered emails from the train.
You reread notes while eating lunch.
By the end of your third week, Sukuna had begun sending messages at exactly six in the evening.
Sukuna: Leave.
The first time, you smiled at your phone and continued working.
At six fifteen:
Sukuna: Y/N.
At six twenty:
Sukuna: I know you can see this.
At six thirty:
Sukuna: I’m coming there.
You packed your bag immediately.
When you arrived home that evening, he stood in the kitchen with his arms crossed.
“You threatened to come to my job.”
“I was going to.”
“You can’t collect me like a child.”
“You were there for eleven hours.”
“I’m new.”
“You still need food.”
“You sound like Yuki.”
“I already dislike her.”
“You’ve never met her.”
“She keeps you late.”
“I keep myself late.”
“Worse.”
You had kissed him to stop the lecture.
It worked for approximately thirty seconds.
Then he made you eat dinner.
That evening, three weeks into the job, Yuki stopped by your desk at five forty-five.
You were reading an email from an author who had rejected every note you sent and then asked why the story still felt slow.
Yuki looked over your shoulder.
“Go home.”
You glanced at the clock.
“I just need to answer this.”
“No, you don’t.”
“She’s waiting.”
“She waited eight months to submit the revision. She can wait until tomorrow.”
You looked up.
Yuki nodded toward your bag.
“Your old man is going to start circling the building.”
Your face warmed.
“He is not my old man.”
“He’s older and he’s your man.”
“That is different.”
“Is it?”
You frowned.
Yuki laughed and began walking away.
“Go home, Y/N.”
You closed the email.
Mostly because she was right.
Sukuna had already sent one message.
Sukuna: You leaving on time?
You replied while gathering your things.
You: Yes.
The response came immediately.
Sukuna: Liar.
You smiled.
You: I’m literally putting my coat on.
Sukuna: Proof.
You sent him a picture of your bag and coat.
He reacted with a thumbs-up.
Sukuna used emojis so rarely that even the plain thumb felt threatening.
Traffic delayed you by twenty minutes.
By the time you pulled into the driveway, the sun had nearly disappeared. The windows glowed warmly, and another car sat parked near the curb.
You slowed.
It was not one you recognized.
You checked your phone.
No message from Sukuna.
For one irrational second, you wondered whether one of his clients had appeared without warning. Then you remembered Sukuna would rather redesign an entire building than invite a client into the house.
You entered through the front door.
“I’m home.”
Voices carried from the living room.
One belonged to Sukuna.
The other was younger.
Brighter.
You slipped off your shoes and walked farther inside, still holding your bag.
A man sat on the couch.
He stood the moment he saw you.
You froze.
For half a second, you thought you were looking at a younger version of Sukuna.
Not exactly.
This man’s hair was the same unusual shade of pink, though it was longer and messier. His face was softer, rounder, and far more open. He was muscular, but he carried himself without any of Sukuna’s severe stillness.
Most strikingly, he was smiling.
Widely.
Sukuna rarely smiled like that unless you had caught him completely off guard.
You stopped near the edge of the living room.
“Who are you?”
The man’s smile somehow became larger.
He stepped forward and offered his hand.
“Yuuji Itadori.”
You stared at him.
“Itadori?”
“Yeah. Sukuna’s my uncle.”
Your eyes widened.
Before you could respond, Sukuna appeared from the hallway.
He wore dark lounge pants and a fitted gray shirt, his reading glasses still on his face. He looked irritated in the particular way that meant someone had altered his plans without permission.
He walked directly toward you.
“My nephew dropped by out of nowhere.”
“I texted,” Yuuji said.
“You texted from the driveway.”
“That still counts.”
Sukuna ignored him.
He took your bag from your shoulder, leaned down, and kissed you.
Slowly enough that Yuuji immediately looked away with exaggerated politeness.
When Sukuna pulled back, he looked over your face.
“You’re late.”
“Traffic.”
“You ate?”
“At lunch.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
You smiled.
“Hello to you too.”
His hand settled at your waist.
“I said hello.”
“You kissed me.”
“Same thing.”
Yuuji laughed from the couch.
Sukuna looked over.
“Why are you still here?”
“You invited me inside.”
“I regret it.”
You touched Sukuna’s chest lightly.
“Be nice.”
“I am.”
Yuuji nodded solemnly.
“This is apparently his nice voice.”
You looked between them.
The resemblance became clearer the longer you stared. Not only the hair and certain features, but the way Yuuji lifted one eyebrow when teasing. The shape of his smile. The confidence in the way he occupied a room.
Still, where Sukuna seemed carved from sharp edges, Yuuji was warmth.
You looked back at Sukuna.
“You never told me you had a nephew.”
“I did.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I mentioned my brother.”
“Once.”
“And he has a son.”
“You never said that part.”
Yuuji raised one hand.
“Hi. That part is me.”
You laughed.
Sukuna sighed.
“Sit down. I’m making dinner.”
“You were making dinner before I got here?” Yuuji asked.
“I was making dinner for two.”
“Three isn’t that different.”
“It is mathematically.”
You took your coat off and followed Sukuna toward the kitchen.
He hung it on the back of a chair, then turned toward you.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“You look confused.”
“I am.”
His mouth flattened.
“He didn’t tell me he was back in town.”
Yuuji called from the living room, “I graduated!”
Sukuna shouted back, “That doesn’t explain showing up at my house.”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“You did. Poorly.”
You smiled.
Sukuna looked down at you.
“What?”
“You have family.”
“Unfortunately.”
“You have a nephew my age.”
His expression changed slightly.
Not discomfort.
Awareness.
“He’s twenty-four.”
“So am I.”
“I know.”
You studied him.
“Does that feel strange?”
“Yes.”
The answer came so quickly that you laughed.
Sukuna’s arm moved around your waist.
“Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
You leaned up and kissed his cheek.
“I think it’s sweet.”
“It isn’t.”
Yuuji appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“What’s sweet?”
“Nothing,” Sukuna said.
“You.”
Yuuji looked delighted.
Sukuna looked betrayed.
Dinner became pasta because Sukuna refused to order food and equally refused to let Yuuji “touch anything important.”
You sat at the island while the two of them argued over garlic.
Yuuji chopped too quickly.
Sukuna corrected him.
Yuuji said he had been cooking for years.
Sukuna told him that surviving meals did not qualify as cooking.
You watched them with growing amusement. “You really just graduated?” you asked.
Yuuji nodded.
“Business management.”
“What are you doing now?”
“Trying to figure that out.”
Sukuna snorted.
Yuuji pointed the knife toward him.
“You changed careers twice.”
“I changed firms.”
“Same emotional effect.”
You laughed.
Sukuna glanced at you.
“Don’t encourage him.”
Yuuji grinned.
“I moved back last week. My mom said I should call him.”
“Your mother enjoys creating problems for me.”
“She said you were lonely.”
Sukuna’s expression became flat.
“I live with someone.”
Yuuji looked toward you.
“Yeah, I see that now.”
You smiled.
Dinner moved to the dining table.
Yuuji asked you about publishing. You explained the company, your internship, and how Yuki had hired you after graduation.
“Yuki Tsukumo?” he asked.
“You know her?”
“No. The name sounds cool.”
“It suits her.”
“Is she scary?”
“Yes.”
Sukuna looked at you.
“You said she was nice.”
“She can be both.”
“I don’t like that.”
Yuuji leaned toward you.
“He doesn’t like anyone.”
“That’s not true,” you said.
Sukuna took a drink of water.
Yuuji waited.
You waited too.
Sukuna looked between both of you.
“What?”
“Name someone,” Yuuji said.
Sukuna pointed toward you.
“Her.”
Yuuji laughed.
You smiled into your glass.
The conversation felt surprisingly easy.
Yuuji told stories about Sukuna from years earlier, though most involved him refusing to attend family events.
“He came to my middle school graduation,” Yuuji said.
Sukuna looked annoyed.
“I was invited.”
“You left before cake.”
“It was bad cake.”
“You didn’t taste it.”
“I could tell.”
You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your fork.
Sukuna glared at Yuuji.
“That was twelve years ago.”
“And you’ve been mad about cake ever since.”
Yuuji fit into the house more naturally than you expected.
He talked enough to fill every silence Sukuna usually preferred. He asked questions without making them feel intrusive. He complimented the framed photographs, the bookshelves, and the large abstract painting near the stairs.
Then he pointed toward a picture on the side table.
It showed you and Sukuna at your graduation. You wore your gown, curls loose down your back, while Sukuna kissed your temple.
Yuuji picked it up.
“This is cute.”
Sukuna frowned.
“Put it down.”
“You look happy.”
“Put it down.”
Yuuji returned it carefully.
Then he looked at you.
“How did you two meet?”
You reached for your water.
“At a company dinner.”
“She was working,” Sukuna added.
Yuuji looked between you.
“And then?”
You and Sukuna became very quiet.
Yuuji’s eyes widened.
“Oh.”
You covered your face.
Sukuna continued eating.
Yuuji laughed.
“So that’s how.”
“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answered,” Sukuna said.
“I didn’t know that was the answer.”
Your cheeks burned.
You changed the subject.
“So you’re staying in the city?”
“For now.”
Yuuji smiled.
“I got an apartment about twenty minutes from here.”
“That’s close,” you said.
Sukuna muttered, “Too close.”
Yuuji ignored him.
“We should hang out.”
You smiled.
“I’d like that.”
Sukuna looked at you.
“What?”
“He’s your nephew.”
“That isn’t a reason.”
“It is to normal people.”
Yuuji leaned back in his chair.
“You two are weirdly cute.”
Sukuna’s expression darkened.
“Eat.”
After dinner, Yuuji helped clear the table despite Sukuna telling him not to touch the dishwasher because he loaded it incorrectly.
You made coffee.
Yuuji declined and asked for juice.
Sukuna looked disgusted.
“He’s twenty-four,” you reminded him.
“Exactly.”
“You drink juice.”
“Not with dinner.”
Yuuji accepted the glass from you with a grateful smile.
“Thank you.”
Then he glanced toward Sukuna, who stood at the counter rinsing dishes.
“So.”
You looked at him.
Yuuji lowered his voice slightly.
“Why do you like an old guy like him?”
Your face warmed instantly.
Sukuna stopped rinsing the plate.
The kitchen went quiet.
Yuuji looked toward him.
“I didn’t mean it badly.”
Sukuna turned off the water.
“You’re still in my house.”
Yuuji looked back at you.
“You don’t have to answer.”
You tucked one curl behind your ear.
“No, it’s okay.”
Sukuna leaned against the counter, arms folded.
You could feel his attention.
“He’s not that old.”
Both men looked at you.
You laughed.
“Okay. He is older.”
Sukuna’s eyes narrowed.
“But I like him because he’s steady.”
Sukuna’s expression shifted.
You looked down at your glass.
“He takes care of me without making me feel incapable. He believes in my work. He makes me laugh, even though most of the time he isn’t trying to.”
Yuuji smiled.
Sukuna watched you silently.
“And he’s very affectionate,” you added.
Yuuji looked toward Sukuna in disbelief.
“Him?”
Sukuna frowned.
You laughed.
“He’s clingy.”
“I’m not,” Sukuna said.
“You waited by the window when I visited my parents.”
“I heard your car.”
“You follow me from room to room.”
“The rooms belong to me.”
“Our house,” you corrected.
Sukuna’s mouth flattened.
“Our house.”
Yuuji’s smile grew.
“You really love him.”
Your face softened.
“Yes.”
The answer came easily.
Sukuna looked away, but not before you saw the faint change in his expression.
Yuuji noticed the ring on your hand next.
It was the same one Sukuna had given you years earlier. A simple but expensive design with a dark stone, elegant enough that strangers often assumed it carried more meaning than it did.
Yuuji pointed.
“Wait. Are you two engaged?”
Your eyes widened.
“No. No, no.”
The answer came much too fast.
Sukuna’s gaze snapped toward you.
You held up your hand.
“This is just a gift.”
Yuuji looked at the ring.
“Looks like an engagement ring.”
“It isn’t.”
“Sukuna gave it to you?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“My birthday.”
Yuuji nodded slowly.
“Still suspicious.”
Sukuna returned to the dishes.
“It’s a ring.”
“Most people don’t just give rings.”
“I do.”
Yuuji looked at you.
“So you’re not engaged.”
“No.”
You smiled, though something had shifted uneasily inside you.
Yuuji took another drink.
“Are you going to get married?”
The question settled over the kitchen.
You stopped moving.
Sukuna’s hands went still beneath the running water.
Yuuji looked between both of you.
“Oh.”
He lowered the glass.
“You haven’t talked about it.”
You glanced toward Sukuna.
His back remained partially turned.
“No,” you said quietly.
Yuuji rubbed the back of his neck.
“Sorry. That was probably too personal.”
“It’s okay.”
“It was too personal,” Sukuna said.
Yuuji nodded.
“Yeah. Sorry.”
The conversation recovered.
Mostly.
Yuuji began telling you about his apartment, his mother, and the job interviews he had scheduled. You listened. Asked questions. Laughed when he told another story about Sukuna.
But the question remained.
Are you going to get married?
You had been with Sukuna for four years.
You lived together.
He paid for your degrees.
You had built routines, fought, repaired, and planned around one another.
Yet neither of you had ever discussed marriage.
Not seriously.
You had assumed there was time.
Sukuna had already been married once. That fact rarely entered your relationship, but it existed. He had not spoken much about his ex-wife or the divorce, only that the marriage ended because they no longer wanted the same life.
You had never asked whether he wanted to try again.
Perhaps you had been afraid of the answer.
Yuuji left shortly after nine.
You stood beside Sukuna near the front door while Yuuji pulled on his jacket.
“It was nice meeting you,” you said.
“You too.”
He smiled.
“Sorry again about the marriage thing.”
You shook your head.
“It’s okay.”
Sukuna opened the door.
“It’s time for you to go.”
Yuuji laughed.
“See you soon?”
You nodded.
“Yes.”
Sukuna said nothing.
Yuuji hugged you quickly, then made the mistake of attempting to hug Sukuna.
Sukuna held him at arm’s length.
“Leave.”
“You missed me.”
“No.”
“You’ll warm up.”
“I knew you as a baby. This is as warm as it gets.”
Yuuji laughed and walked toward his car.
You waved until he drove away.
Sukuna shut the door.
The house became quiet again.
Too quiet.
He turned toward you.
“You like him.”
“Yes.”
“He talks too much.”
“He’s sweet.”
“He appeared without warning.”
“He wanted to see you.”
“He saw me.”
You smiled faintly.
Sukuna took the empty glass from your hand and carried it toward the kitchen.
You followed.
Normally, you would have teased him about Yuuji.
Asked why he had never mentioned the nephew who looked like a cheerful version of him.
Instead, you leaned against the counter and watched him load the final dish.
Sukuna noticed.
He always did.
“You’re quiet.”
“I’m tired.”
“No.”
You looked toward him.
He closed the dishwasher.
“Something’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Y/N.”
The warning in his voice was mild.
You played with the ring on your finger.
Sukuna’s eyes moved toward it.
He understood immediately.
His expression became unreadable.
“You’re thinking about what he asked.”
You looked down.
“Yes.”
Sukuna leaned back against the opposite counter.
You both stood there for several seconds.
You tried to organize the question carefully.
It still came out small.
“How do you feel about getting married?”
Sukuna did not answer immediately.
Your stomach tightened.
You looked at his face, searching for resistance.
His jaw shifted.
Not anger.
Thought.
You forced a smile.
“You don’t have to answer right now.”
“You asked.”
“I know.”
“Then let me answer.”
You went quiet.
Sukuna folded his arms.
“I’ve been married.”
“I know.”
“It wasn’t good by the end.”
You nodded.
“I didn’t think I’d do it again.”
The words hurt before he finished.
Your gaze dropped to the floor.
Sukuna noticed.
He crossed the kitchen immediately.
“That was before you.”
You looked up.
He stopped in front of you.
“I didn’t say I don’t want to marry you.”
“You said you didn’t think you’d do it again.”
“I didn’t.”
His hand settled at your waist.
“Then you showed up.”
Your breath caught.
Sukuna studied your face.
“Have you been thinking about this?”
“I don’t know.”
“That means yes.”
You smiled weakly.
“Sometimes.”
“How long?”
“Not seriously.”
He lifted one eyebrow.
“Yuuji asked, and I realized I didn’t know whether you ever wanted that with me.”
Sukuna’s expression softened.
“You thought I was paying for four years of school, moving you into my house, and planning my entire life around you because this was temporary?”
“No.”
“Sounds like you did.”
“I know you love me.”
“Good.”
“But love and marriage aren’t always the same.”
Sukuna looked at you for a long moment.
Then he nodded.
“No. They aren’t.”
Your chest tightened again.
His thumb moved slowly over your waist.
“Marriage is paperwork.”
You frowned.
“That sounds romantic.”
“Let me finish.”
You waited.
“It’s paperwork, property, legal rights, taxes, and a ceremony where everyone stares at you.”
You laughed softly.
“All things you hate.”
“Yes.”
“Then why would you want it?”
Sukuna’s gaze held yours.
“Because you might.”
Your smile faded.
“I don’t want you to marry me just because I want it.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You just said—”
“I said your wanting it would matter.”
His hand came up to cup your face.
“I don’t do anything I don’t want.”
That was true.
Painfully, unquestionably true.
Sukuna’s thumb brushed your cheek.
“I didn’t want another marriage before you.”
“And now?”
He looked at you.
“Now I can see it.”
Your breath stopped.
“See what?”
“You in my house forever.”
You smiled through the sudden sting in your eyes.
“I’m already in your house.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
Sukuna sighed.
“You’re demanding.”
“You love it.”
“Sometimes.”
You waited.
His expression softened into something almost vulnerable.
“I can see you as my wife.”
Your eyes filled immediately.
Sukuna pointed at you.
“No.”
You laughed through the tears.
“You said wife.”
“I know what I said.”
“You’ve never said that before.”
“I haven’t needed to.”
You touched his wrist.
“Would you want to?”
“Marry you?”
You nodded.
“Yes.”
The answer was calm.
Certain.
Not dramatic.
Completely Sukuna.
Your mouth parted.
He narrowed his eyes slightly.
“Don’t look so surprised.”
“I am surprised.”
“Why?”
“You’ve already been married.”
“To someone else.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“That I signed papers with another woman twenty years ago?”
You gave him a look.
“The divorce.”
“No.”
“Not at all?”
“It taught me what I don’t want.”
Your voice softened.
“What do you want?”
Sukuna’s hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck.
“You.”
Your throat tightened.
“More specifically.”
He looked irritated by the request.
Then he answered anyway.
“I want this house. You leaving books everywhere. You complaining about my movies. You coming home late and pretending you ate lunch.”
“I do eat lunch.”
“Sometimes.”
You smiled.
“I want you interrupting work. I want you sleeping on my chest. I want to know where you are when I’m seventy.”
Your eyes burned harder.
Sukuna’s voice lowered.
“And I want the legal right to make decisions if something happens to you. I want your father to have no authority over anything that belongs to us.”
The practicality made the sentiment feel even more intimate.
You touched his chest.
“You’ve thought about this.”
Sukuna was quiet.
“How long?”
He looked away.
Your eyes widened.
“Sukuna.”
“What?”
“How long?”
“A while.”
“How long is a while?”
He stared at the wall over your shoulder.
“Before graduation.”
You gasped.
“My master’s graduation?”
“Yes.”
“That was months ago.”
“I know.”
“You’ve been thinking about marrying me for months?”
“Stop making it sound strange.”
“It is not strange. It is important.”
He sighed.
“I wanted you to start working first.”
“Why?”
“So you knew you could leave.”
The answer silenced you.
Sukuna looked back at you.
“I didn’t want to ask while you were still financially dependent on me.”
Your chest ached.
“I didn’t want you wondering if you had to say yes because I paid tuition or because you lived here.”
“You know I wouldn’t think that.”
“You might.”
You remembered the fight two years earlier.
The shame you carried over not contributing.
The way money had complicated love in your childhood.
Sukuna had remembered too.
“You waited,” you whispered.
“Yes.”
“Because you wanted me to have my own job first.”
“Yes.”
Tears slipped over despite your best effort.
Sukuna groaned.
“You’ve cried twice this week.”
“You said something really beautiful.”
“I said I didn’t want to accidentally coerce you.”
“That is beautiful to me.”
“Your standards are low.”
You laughed and wrapped your arms around him.
Sukuna held you immediately.
His hands settled at your waist, pulling you close.
“So,” you murmured into his shirt, “you do want to marry me.”
“Yes.”
“Someday?”
His chest moved beneath your cheek.
“Yes.”
You pulled back and looked up at him.
“How far away is someday?”
Sukuna narrowed his eyes.
“Don’t push it.”
You laughed.
“I’m just asking.”
“You’ve known I want it for thirty seconds.”
“And?”
“And now you’re demanding a schedule.”
“You’re an architect. You like schedules.”
“I hate yours.”
You smiled.
Sukuna touched the ring on your finger.
“Stop telling people that’s just a gift.”
Your eyebrows rose.
“It is just a gift.”
“For now.”
Your heart skipped.
“What does that mean?”
“It means nothing.”
“Sukuna.”
He leaned down and kissed you before you could continue.
The kiss was slow and firm, one hand sliding to the back of your neck while the other held your waist.
When he pulled away, you were breathless.
“That was manipulation,” you whispered.
“It worked.”
“You cannot kiss me to avoid questions.”
“I can.”
You smiled up at him.
“Are you going to propose?”
“Go change out of your work clothes.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“You look tired.”
“You are avoiding me.”
Sukuna turned you around and guided you toward the hallway with one hand at your lower back.
“You need sleep.”
“I need details.”
“You need both.”
You looked over your shoulder.
He was smirking.
The realization hit you.
“You already have a plan.”
His face became blank.
You gasped.
“You do.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Sukuna stopped walking.
Then he leaned down until his mouth was near your ear.
“Keep asking, and I’ll wait another year.”
You turned toward him.
“You wouldn’t.”
His eyes met yours.
“No.”
The answer was immediate.
Your smile softened.
Sukuna brushed one curl away from your face.
“Go shower.”
“Will you come with me?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“If you stop talking about Yuuji.”
You laughed.
“You’re jealous because I like him.”
“I’m not jealous.”
“He hugged me.”
“He hugs everyone.”
“He said I was nice.”
“He’s easily impressed.”
You took his hand and pulled him toward the stairs.
For the rest of the night, Sukuna refused to answer any more questions.
But when you climbed into bed, he pulled you against his chest and rested his hand over the ring he had given you years earlier.
You smiled into the darkness.
For the first time, the jewelry no longer felt like only a gift.
It felt like the beginning of a promise neither of you had been ready to name until someone else asked the question.
"She had spent her whole life learning how to be careful—careful with her body, her voice, her heart, and the truth of who she was.
Then Sukuna entered her life, all sharp edges, quiet obsession, and dangerous tenderness. He was not soft with the world, but with her, he became something close to gentle.
A secret romance between a trans woman still learning she deserves to be loved openly, and a man who makes it impossible for her to feel hidden."
cw; smut. fluff. homophobia (from parents)
one | two | three | four | six | seven
By senior year, almost everyone at the university knew who you were.
Not the version of you your parents had sent away four years ago.
Not the quiet boy in oversized sweatshirts who walked with his shoulders rounded inward and answered to a name that felt like a stone in his mouth.
You.
The woman you had become in public, slowly and then all at once.
Your professors used your chosen name without hesitation. Your classmates had long since adjusted. The faculty records had finally been updated enough that your real name appeared first in most systems, with the legal one buried behind parentheses where it belonged. You had friends who had never known you any other way. Girls who borrowed your jewelry. Architecture students who asked for your opinion on their models because your eye for shape and balance was sharper than theirs. People who smiled when you entered a room instead of pausing to figure you out.
You no longer hid your body beneath layers.
Not at school.
Not in the apartment.
Not anywhere that felt like yours.
Your hair had grown to the middle of your back, dark and soft, cut now with tiny micro bangs that sat just above your brows. Sukuna had stared at them for nearly a full minute the first time you came home from the salon. “What?” you had asked, touching your forehead nervously. “They’re short.”
“They’re supposed to be.”
“You paid someone to do that?” You had gasped. “You hate them?”
“No.”
“You look like you hate them.”
“I’m thinking.”
“About what?” He had stepped closer, pushed one strand gently back into place, and looked at your face with maddening seriousness. “They make your eyes look bigger.”
“Is that bad?”
“No.” His thumb brushed your cheek. “It’s distracting.” That had been the end of the conversation.
Or rather, the end of the criticism.
By the following week, he had a picture of you with your new haircut set as the lock screen on his phone.
Your style had changed too.
You had once hidden pink tank tops beneath gray hoodies as if femininity were contraband. Now you wore black skirts with chains, fitted tops beneath oversized jackets, layered necklaces, silver rings, dark eyeliner, glossy lips, and boots that clicked against the pavement when you crossed campus. You loved jewelry most of all. Thin chains. Heavy rings. Little earrings shaped like moons and stars. Anything that caught the light and made you feel adorned instead of disguised.
Sukuna complained about the time it took you to get ready.
Then he bought you more jewelry.
For your twenty-second birthday, he had given you a ruby promise ring.
Not in a restaurant.
Not beneath fairy lights.
Not with some carefully rehearsed speech.
He had found you sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by final project boards, half-eaten noodles, tracing paper, and enough coffee cups to make him visibly angry. “You’re a disaster,” he said from the doorway.
You looked up, exhausted. “Happy birthday to me.” He had walked over, held out a small black box, and waited.
You stared at it.
Then at him.
“Sukuna.”
“Open it.” Inside was a ring with a deep red stone set in dark metal, elegant but sharp enough to suit you. The ruby caught the light like a drop of blood.
You had looked up at him with tears already rising.
He pointed at you.
“Don’t.”
“You got me a ring.”
“It’s not an engagement ring.”
“I know.”
“I’m not asking yet.” Your breath caught on the word yet.
Sukuna noticed.
His ears turned faintly pink. “Just put it on.” Your hands trembled as he slid it onto your finger. “What does it mean?” you asked.
He shrugged, pretending to be less affected than he was. “That I’m serious.”
“You could’ve just said that.”
“I did.”
“Then why the ring?”
“Because you like jewelry.” You had laughed through the tears. Then Sukuna had leaned down and kissed you, his hand cradling the back of your head. “It means I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured against your mouth.
You had worn it every day since.
For most of senior year, graduation seemed far enough away to be abstract.
Then suddenly, it was spring.
Caps were ordered.
Gowns were distributed.
Final projects were presented.
Emails began arriving with ceremony instructions, seating charts, and reminders that graduates should arrive two hours before the event.
And your parents called to tell you they had booked a hotel.
You had been sitting at the kitchen table when your father said it.
Sukuna stood at the counter making coffee. “We’ll get in Friday night,” your father said. “Your mother wants to see the campus before the ceremony.” Your grip tightened around the phone. “That’s fine.”
“You should’ve called more.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You’re always busy.”
“I’m graduating.”
“That doesn’t mean you forget family.” The word family lodged painfully inside you.
You glanced at Sukuna.
He had gone still, coffee mug held beneath the machine, gaze fixed on your face.
Your father kept talking.
He asked whether you had picked up your gown. Whether you knew where they were supposed to sit. Whether architecture students graduated separately. Whether your roommate’s family would be there.
“Ryomen’s graduating too, right?”
“Yes.”
“Engineering.”
“Yes.”
“Good degree.” You closed your eyes briefly.
Even after four years, your father still treated Sukuna’s choices as proof of discipline and yours as a tolerated deviation.
He did not know Sukuna had spent half of college correcting him whenever he said something cruel. He did not know Sukuna had helped you rebuild models at three in the morning or sat beside you while you cried over reviews. He did not know Sukuna used your real name in every room that mattered.
He did not know Sukuna was your boyfriend.
He did not know you were a woman.
He knew nothing true about your life.
And in two days, all of it would stand in front of him beneath stadium lights.
After the call ended, you placed the phone on the table and stared at it.
Sukuna set the coffee down.
“You look sick.”
“I feel sick.” He pulled out the chair beside you and sat. “They’re coming?” You nodded. “Both of them.” He was quiet.
You twisted the ruby ring around your finger. “They haven’t seen me since sophomore year.”
“I know.”
“They’re going to see everything at once.” Your voice began to shake. “My hair. My clothes. My face. My name.” Sukuna reached across the table and covered your hand with his. “They’ll survive.”
“That’s not what I’m worried about.”
“I know.” You looked at him. “What if they make a scene?”
“Then I handle it.”
“You can’t fight my dad at graduation.”
“I can fight anyone anywhere.” Despite yourself, you laughed weakly. Sukuna’s thumb moved over your knuckles.
“I’m serious.”
“That’s what worries me.”
He leaned closer.
“You’re not changing anything.”
You blinked.
“What?”
“You’re not tying your hair back. You’re not taking off your makeup. You’re not dressing like him.”
Your throat tightened.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You thought about it.”
You looked away.
He always knew.
Sukuna lifted your hand and pressed his lips to the ruby ring.
“You walk across that stage as yourself.”
Your eyes stung.
“And when they react,” he continued, “you look at me.”
“You’ll be graduating too.”
“I’ll find you.”
“You can’t be everywhere.”
His mouth curved faintly.
“Watch me.”
Graduation morning arrived bright, hot, and painfully clear.
You stood in front of the mirror while sunlight spread across the bedroom floor. Your gown hung open around you, revealing the black dress you had chosen beneath it. The neckline was modest but fitted, the sleeves sheer, the hem falling just below your knees. Silver chains rested against your throat. Rings glimmered across both hands, the ruby brightest among them.
Your makeup was darker than what your parents had ever seen you wear.
Smoked liner.
Soft contour.
Deep rose gloss.
Nothing exaggerated.
Nothing hidden.
Your hair fell loose down your back, micro bangs framing your eyes.
You looked beautiful.
You also looked terrified.
Sukuna appeared behind you in the mirror, already dressed in his graduation clothes. His gown hung open over a black shirt and dark trousers. His pale pink hair had grown longer on top than it had freshman year, brushed back from his forehead.
He stopped in the doorway.
You caught his reflection. “What?” you asked.
He looked you over slowly. “You look good.” Your mouth twitched. “That sounded painful.”
“You look very good.”
“Better.” He crossed the room.
His hands settled at your waist, and he rested his chin lightly against the top of your head. “You ready?”
“No.”
“Good.” You laughed under your breath. “You always say that.”
“Because you always survive anyway.”
You looked at yourself again.
Then at him in the mirror.
“Do you think they’ll recognize me?”
Sukuna’s eyes sharpened.
“Eventually.”
“That bad?”
“That good.”
Your breath caught.
He turned you around.
“You don’t look like the person they forced you to be.” His hand lifted to your face. “That’s the point.” You swallowed hard. “What if my dad hates me?” Sukuna’s expression went still. “He already hated everything soft in you.” The words hurt because they were true. “He didn’t know you,” Sukuna continued. “He knew control.” You looked down.
Sukuna touched your chin and raised your face. “If he hates the real you, that’s not your loss.” You knew that.
Or wanted to.
But understanding something did not stop it from hurting. “I wanted them to be proud.” Sukuna’s eyes softened. “I’m proud.” Tears gathered instantly.
He frowned. “Don’t ruin your makeup.” You laughed and dabbed carefully beneath your eyes. “You’re so romantic.”
“I bought you waterproof mascara.”
“You did.”
“For this exact reason.” You smiled. Sukuna leaned down and kissed your forehead, avoiding your carefully glossed lips. “Come on, graduate.” The campus was overflowing by the time you arrived.
Families filled the walkways. Graduates moved in clusters of black gowns and decorated caps. Flowers, balloons, and cameras appeared everywhere. The air carried the strange combination of celebration and panic that belonged only to endings.
You kept searching the crowd.
Sukuna noticed.
“Stop.”
“I’m looking for them.”
“You’ll see them when you see them.”
“What if they see me first?”
“Then they see you.”
He took your hand.
The ruby ring pressed against his palm.
“Look at me.”
You did.
“Today belongs to you.”
Your chest tightened.
“Not them.”
You nodded.
The graduates were separated by program before the ceremony began. Sukuna was sent toward engineering. You were directed toward architecture.
Before leaving, he pulled you close and kissed you quickly.
Your eyes widened.
“There are people everywhere.”
“I know.”
“You’ll mess up my lip gloss.”
“Fix it.”
You laughed.
His thumb brushed your cheek.
“Find me after.”
“I will.”
He looked at you one last time.
Then he disappeared into the crowd.
The ceremony felt both endless and impossibly fast.
You sat among architecture students beneath the wide stadium lights, hands folded over your gown, your cap pinned carefully around your micro bangs. Families filled the stands. Speakers gave speeches about achievement, perseverance, and the future.
You heard almost none of it.
Your gaze kept moving toward the section where your parents were supposed to be seated.
At first, you could not find them.
Then you saw your mother.
Her hair was styled neatly. She wore the dark blue dress she saved for formal events. Beside her sat your father in a gray suit, arms folded, looking impatient.
Neither of them recognized you.
You knew because their eyes moved across the graduates without stopping.
A strange calm settled over you.
For a little while longer, you were safe inside their ignorance.
Then the architecture names began.
One by one, students crossed the stage.
You stood when your row was called and moved toward the stairs.
Your knees felt weak.
The ruby ring caught the light as your hand closed around the edge of your gown.
Ahead of you, names echoed through the speakers.
Then it was your turn.
You handed the announcer your card.
She glanced at it.
Then smiled.
The microphone amplified her voice across the stadium.
She read the legal name first, required by the old administrative record, then paused and added clearly:
“Also known as Y/N.”
Your real name filled the stadium.
Your breath stopped.
Then you stepped onto the stage.
In the stands, your mother’s eyes widened.
Your father leaned forward sharply.
For one suspended second, neither moved.
They looked at your hair.
Your face.
Your makeup.
Your dress visible beneath the open gown.
The way you walked.
Your mother lifted one hand to her mouth.
Your father’s expression transformed from confusion to recognition to fury.
You nearly stumbled.
Then you remembered.
Look at me.
Your eyes moved across the rows of graduates until you found Sukuna standing with the engineering group near the side.
He had already found you.
His gaze held yours.
Steady.
Proud.
Completely unafraid.
He lifted his chin once.
You breathed.
Then you crossed the stage.
You took the diploma cover.
You smiled for the photograph.
You walked down the opposite stairs without looking back at your parents.
By the time Sukuna’s name was called, your hands had finally stopped shaking.
He crossed the stage like the entire ceremony had been arranged for his convenience. Tall, composed, faintly bored. When he accepted his diploma cover, he glanced toward you.
You smiled.
His mouth curved.
Small enough that most people would miss it.
You did not.
After the ceremony, the campus dissolved into noise.
Families spilled from the stands. Graduates took pictures beneath trees and beside stone signs. Someone cried nearby. Someone else popped a bottle of cheap champagne and nearly hit a professor.
You found Sukuna near the engineering building.
He was already holding two bouquets.
One was wrapped in dark paper with red flowers.
The other was pink.
You stared.
“You bought flowers?”
“You graduated.”
“You bought pink flowers.”
“They matched.”
“With what?”
He looked at you as though the answer were obvious.
“You.”
Your face softened.
“Sukuna.”
“Don’t cry.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re doing the eye thing.”
You laughed and took the bouquet.
The two of you spent the next half hour taking pictures.
Some with his friends.
Some with Maya and Nori, who arrived screaming loud enough to make several families turn around.
Nori hugged you first. “Graduate!” Maya followed, careful not to crush the flowers.
“You look gorgeous.”
“You both came.”
“Of course we came,” Maya said.
Nori held up her phone.
“And we’re taking pictures until Sukuna smiles properly.”
“He doesn’t,” you said. “I do,” Sukuna replied.
Everyone stared at him.
He frowned.
“Rarely.”
The pictures continued.
You and Maya.
You and Nori.
All four of you.
Then just you and Sukuna beneath one of the flowering trees near the architecture building.
He stood behind you with one arm around your waist. Your bouquet rested against your chest. His diploma was tucked beneath his other arm. Your hair moved in the warm breeze.
“Look at her,” Nori instructed.
Sukuna looked down at you.
You smiled up at him.
The camera clicked.
Then his gaze dropped to your mouth.
He kissed you before Nori could warn either of you.
The next picture caught your surprise.
The one after that caught you laughing into the kiss.
Maya lowered the phone. “That’s the one.” Sukuna pulled back.
Your lip gloss was slightly smudged. “You ruined it,” you said. “Looks fine.”
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s true.” You were still smiling when a shadow fell across the ground in front of you.
The laughter stopped.
Your father stood several feet away.
Your mother was behind him.
Neither looked familiar in that moment.
Your father’s face was red with rage. His eyes moved over you with open disgust, taking in the makeup, the long hair, the dress beneath your gown, the rings, the flowers in your arms.
Your mother looked pale.
Stunned.
Her gaze lingered on your face as though she were searching for the child she remembered and finding someone else instead.
You went still.
Sukuna’s arm tightened around your waist.
Your father spoke first. “What the hell is this?” The words cut through the warm air.
Maya and Nori exchanged a glance.
Sukuna did not move.
You forced yourself to answer. “It’s graduation.” Your father’s face twisted. “Don’t get smart with me.” Your heart hammered.
Your mother whispered your legal name.
You flinched.
Then she said it again, louder, as though repeating it might summon the version of you she expected.
You straightened.
“That isn’t my name.”
Her mouth parted.
Your father stared.
“What did you say?”
“My name is Y/N.” The words came out clearer than you felt. The ruby ring pressed against your finger as you tightened your grip around the bouquet.
Your father stepped closer. “What have you done to yourself?” Sukuna’s jaw shifted.
You touched his arm lightly.
Not yet.
Your father looked at your chest.
Your hips.
Your face.
“You look ridiculous.” The words struck harder than you expected.
Your mother finally spoke. “Is this why you stopped coming home?” You looked at her. “I stopped coming home because I couldn’t be myself there.” Her face crumpled slightly.
Your father scoffed.
“Yourself?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a man.”
“No.” The answer came faster now.
Years of fear stood behind it.
Years of hidden injections, locked doors, baggy sweatshirts, and lowered voices. “No,” you repeated. “I’m not.” Your father stepped forward again. “You let people put this garbage in your head?”
“No one put anything in my head.”
“That roommate did.” His eyes snapped toward Sukuna. “This is your fault.” Sukuna’s expression became almost bored.
“No.”
“You kept him away from us.” Sukuna’s arm remained around you. “She stayed away because you treat her like shit.” Your father stared at him.
“Her?”
“Yeah.” Sukuna looked down at you briefly. “My girlfriend.” Your mother’s eyes widened further. Your father laughed once, sharp and disbelieving.
“Girlfriend.” Sukuna nodded. “That’s what I said.”
“You’re sick.” Sukuna shrugged. “Maybe.” Then he looked at you. “Still my girlfriend.” Your chest tightened.
Your father’s face darkened. “You paid for this behavior?” he demanded. “I did,” Sukuna said.
He had helped, yes. Covered groceries. Bought supplies. Paid rent when your father’s money came late. But tuition had remained tied to your parents until the end.
Your father pointed at you.
“I paid for that degree.”
You swallowed.
“Yes.”
“And this is how you repay me?”
“I graduated.”
“You humiliated us.”
“No,” you said quietly. “You’re embarrassed because I stopped pretending.”
Your father’s hand moved.
It happened quickly.
A sharp step forward.
His arm lifting.
Your mother gasped.
You saw the slap coming and froze.
But it never landed.
Sukuna caught his wrist in midair.
His expression did not change.
No fury.
No surprise.
Only a cold stillness that made the air around him feel dangerous.
Your father pulled once.
Sukuna did not let go. “You’ll mess up my girlfriend’s makeup,” Sukuna said.
His tone was almost conversational.
That made it worse.
Your father’s eyes widened.
“Let go of me.” Sukuna’s grip tightened just enough to make him wince. “You try to touch her again,” Sukuna said, “and you’ll leave graduation with something broken.”
“Sukuna,” you whispered.
His eyes flicked toward you.
You shook your head.
After a moment, he released your father’s wrist.
Your father stumbled back a step, rubbing the skin.
Your mother looked horrified.
Not at him for trying to hit you.
At Sukuna for stopping him. “You threatened him,” she said.
Sukuna lifted one brow.
“He tried to hit her.”
“She’s our child.”
“Then act like it.”
The words silenced her.
Your father’s chest rose and fell rapidly.
He looked at you again.
This time, the anger in his face had sharpened into something uglier.
“If you walk away from us like this, don’t come back.”
Pain moved through you.
Deep.
Old.
Exactly where he knew to place it.
For a second, you were eleven again, standing over the empty place where your sketchbook had been.
Fourteen, watching hair fall to the bathroom floor.
Seventeen, holding the pink shirt he called proof of failure.
You looked at your mother.
She said nothing.
Did not reach for you.
Did not contradict him.
Sukuna’s hand found yours.
The ruby ring pressed against his palm.
You looked down at your joined hands.
Then back at your father.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
Your voice shook.
But the words held.
Your father stared.
Your mother’s eyes filled with tears.
You wanted to comfort her.
That instinct nearly broke you.
Even now.
Even after all of it.
But you stayed beside Sukuna.
Your father gave one final disgusted scoff and turned away.
Your mother hesitated.
For a fraction of a second, she looked like she might step toward you.
Instead, she followed him.
You watched them disappear into the crowd.
The noise of graduation slowly returned.
Laughter.
Cameras.
Voices.
The ordinary world moving around the place where yours had split open.
You stood very still.
Then the bouquet slipped from your hands.
Sukuna caught it before it hit the ground.
You looked at him.
Your mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
He handed the flowers to Maya without looking away from you.
Then he pulled you into his arms.
You folded against him.
The first sob broke from you violently.
Your hands clutched the front of his gown.
Sukuna held you tight, one arm around your shoulders, the other around your waist, shielding you from the crowd with his body.
Maya and Nori moved closer, forming a small wall around you.
You cried into Sukuna’s chest until your breathing turned uneven.
He said nothing at first.
He simply held you.
His hand moved slowly up and down your back.
Your makeup did smear then.
Black beneath your eyes.
Gloss against his shirt.
He did not care.
“I’m sorry,” you choked out.
Sukuna’s arms tightened.
“For what?”
“They came all this way.”
“So?”
“I wanted—”
Your voice broke.
He knew.
You did not have to finish. You wanted them to love you anyway. You wanted your father’s pride without his conditions. You wanted your mother to step forward.
You wanted something that had never truly existed but still felt like home when you imagined it.
Sukuna leaned back enough to look at you.
His thumb wiped carefully beneath your eye, smearing the makeup further. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” You shook your head, crying harder. “They’re my family.” Sukuna went still.
Then his expression softened in a way that made him look younger.
Not nineteen.
Not the intimidating student everyone knew.
Just the boy who had once stood in your bedroom doorway and said he had your back. “They’re related to you,” he said.
You stared at him through tears. “That doesn’t make them family.” His hands came up to hold your face. “I’m your family.” Your breath caught.
He looked into your eyes.
Completely certain.
“You hear me?”
You nodded once.
Sukuna’s thumbs brushed your cheeks.
“You’re mine.”
Not possessive.
Not controlling.
A promise.
“And I’m yours.”
Another sob escaped you.
He pulled you back against his chest.
“I’m not leaving,” he murmured into your hair. “Not because they’re angry. Not because things get hard. Not because you change your hair or your name or your body.”
Your hands tightened around him.
“You’re my family,” he repeated. “That’s it.”
You closed your eyes.
Around you, Maya was crying openly.
Nori pretended not to be.
Sukuna noticed neither.
His entire world had narrowed to you.
Eventually, your breathing slowed.
You pulled back and looked at the dark smudges your makeup had left on his shirt.
“I ruined it.”
He glanced down.
“Looks fine.”
A broken laugh escaped you.
He smiled faintly.
“There she is.”
You wiped your cheeks.
“My makeup probably looks terrible.”
“It does.”
You gasped.
Maya laughed through her tears.
Nori smacked Sukuna’s arm.
He frowned at her.
“What?”
“You’re supposed to lie.”
“I told her she’s beautiful.”
You looked at him.
He touched the ruby ring on your finger.
“She is.”
Your eyes burned again.
Sukuna pointed at you.
“No.”
You laughed despite everything.
Maya handed you a tissue.
Nori picked up the flowers.
The four of you stood beneath the warm afternoon sun, still dressed in graduation gowns, surrounded by families taking pictures and people shouting names across the lawn.
Your parents were gone.
The pain of that would not disappear in a single afternoon.
You knew that.
Grief was not erased by bravery. It simply learned to live beside it.
But Sukuna’s hand remained wrapped around yours.
Maya fixed your eyeliner with a compact mirror and a cotton swab.
Nori rearranged your hair and insisted the next round of pictures would be better.
When the camera came out again, Sukuna stood beside you.
You leaned into him.
His arm came around your waist.
The ruby ring flashed against the black fabric of his gown. “Smile,” Maya said.
You looked at Sukuna.
He looked at you.
And this time, when the camera clicked, you did.
i have loved writing this little one shot series, i started writing this months ago for pride month, and then of course i missed posting it in june ugh. but i always love bringing queerism to my works!
❝You grew up behind locked doors—kept “safe” until safety started to look like a cage.
One night, something inside you snapped, and the world answered with sirens, courtrooms, and an iron-lit ward that promised treatment but fed on fear. That’s where you met him.
Sukuna—another monster on paper, another lifer with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He watched you like he recognized the shape of your loneliness. Like he’d been waiting. And when the ward turned bloody, when the gates cracked open for a moment too long, he took your hand and didn’t let go.
Now living in the aftermath—moving country to country, carrying secrets like loaded guns.
Because what escaped with them wasn’t just love.
It was something darker.❞
Saturday arrived soft, like the world had been holding its breath for you.
Yuuji was officially two weeks old—two weeks of tiny sighs and milk-warm hiccups, two weeks of learning the shape of his cries, two weeks of Sukuna hovering like a shadow that finally understood how to be gentle. The house carried that newborn hush—laundry that never ended, bottles lined like soldiers, a blanket draped over the rocking chair like it belonged there forever.
Sukuna stood at the foot of the bed while you fixed him up like a ritual.
Jeans first—dark, clean, not faded, the kind that didn’t look like he’d fought the whole world in them.
Then the black knitted sweater you’d picked out, soft and simple in a way that made him look… almost normal.
Almost.
He looked down at himself, brows knit, mouth twisting like he’d tasted something bitter. “I look like a suburban father with an engineering degree,” he grunted.
You laughed, warm and bright, stepping close enough to pat his chest—solid muscle under knit fabric, heartbeat steady beneath your palm. “No,” you corrected sweetly, eyes shining. “You look like a tall, buff, sexy, criminal suburban father.”
Sukuna’s mouth twitched—half smirk, half surrender. His gaze slid over your face like he was counting freckles. Like he was counting blessings he didn’t deserve.
Then he checked his watch with the exaggerated seriousness he used when he wanted control over something small. “You owe me kisses,” he said flatly.
You gasped, clutching your chest with theatrical offense, then leaned in with a sly smile. “Kisses lead to things.”
Sukuna’s eyes narrowed slightly, already amused, already hungry in that quiet way.
You patted his chest again—gentle, warning. “And we can’t do things for another four to six weeks.”
He groaned like a man enduring a sentence, and he stepped closer until the space between you was nothing. He dipped his head and kissed you—slow, careful, like he was trying to pour devotion into your mouth without making you dizzy. When he pulled back, his lips brushed the corner of yours and he whispered something low and wicked—something meant to curl heat in your belly without crossing the line your healing body had drawn.
Your cheeks flushed immediately.
You glared at him with a smile, half scandalized, half helpless. “Sukuna.” His hands slid to your hips—just holding, just grounding, like he liked knowing exactly where you were. “What?” he murmured, innocent in tone, sinful in gaze. “I’m being patient.”
“You’re being insufferable.” He kissed your forehead like a saint. “Same thing.” You turned to get dressed before he could steal more of your breath.
Jeans, soft and familiar—buttons done slowly, your body still tender in quiet places you didn’t talk about, the memory of birth still written in your bones. Then the blush sweater you loved, the one that made you feel pretty without trying too hard. You pulled it over your head and smoothed it down, the fabric warm against your skin.
Your hair was still a little wild—postpartum hair, sleep hair, the kind of hair that said life is happening—and when you glanced over, Sukuna was watching you like you were the only stable thing in the universe.
You swallowed, suddenly shy.
“Stop staring,” you muttered. “I’m not staring,” he said immediately, lying with the sincerity of a man who had never learned subtlety.
You huffed a laugh and went to the mirror anyway, fixing yourself with small touches—like you were assembling the version of you that could walk into someone else’s home and be okay.
When you turned back, Yuuji was already dressed.
Of course he was.
Sukuna had changed his diaper, powdered him, fastened the little onesie with a precision that would’ve made a nurse proud. Yuuji wore something soft and simple, the kind of neutral outfit you’d stocked up on because you’d been too exhausted to care about anything more complicated.
He was swaddled in Sukuna’s arms, pale pink hair like a secret sunrise, tiny mouth pursed in sleep. Sukuna’s big hand held him with absurd care—like he knew how easily the world could break something good.
Your heart pulled tight.
You walked over, brushing your fingertips over Yuuji’s cheek. He made a tiny sound, barely there, and settled again.
Sukuna’s gaze flicked to you. “You okay?” You nodded. “He’s just… so small.” Sukuna adjusted his hold, the movement instinctive now. “He’s strong.”
“He’s two weeks old.”
“Still strong,” Sukuna insisted, voice stubborn with something that sounded dangerously close to awe. “He’s ours.” You breathed in, tasting the moment like a prayer.
Then you looked up at Sukuna, searching his face—this man who had once been all sharp edges and storms, now dressed like a reluctant suburban dad, holding your baby like the most precious evidence of redemption.
You touched his sweater lightly. “Are you ready?”
His jaw shifted, a muscle jumping once. His eyes were darker than usual—not anger, not control—just something tight and complicated.
“Ready for what.” You gave him a look. “Don’t play dumb.” He scoffed, but it wasn’t cruel. It was nervousness wearing his voice like armor.
You stepped closer, smoothing the cuff of his sleeve like you could calm him by organizing him. “To meet your half siblings,” you said softly. “And… your mom’s husband.”
Sukuna’s gaze dropped to Yuuji again. His thumb brushed the baby’s shoulder—gentle, absentminded.
“For the record,” he said, voice low, “I don’t care about her husband.” You nodded like that was fine. Like you weren’t asking him to love anyone. Like you were just asking him to show up.
“And your siblings?” His mouth tightened. Then he exhaled through his nose, slow, measured. “They didn’t do anything.”
That was the closest thing to openness you’d ever get from him without a fight.
You smiled, soft as a promise. “Okay.” He looked at you—really looked—and his expression shifted slightly, like he was remembering something important.
“Stay close to me,” he said.
You lifted an eyebrow. “Sukuna.”
“I’m not—” he started, then stopped, because he was. He swallowed. “Just… stay close.”
You reached up and cupped his cheek. He leaned into your palm like he’d been waiting for that touch all morning. “I’m not leaving,” you whispered.
His eyes flickered, and for a second he looked like that lost boy again—small and terrified beneath the shape of a man who could scare the world.
Then he nodded once, firm, decisive, as if he could lock your words inside his chest and keep them safe. “Good,” he muttered.
You kissed him—gentle, brief, careful of the way life had shifted the rules around your body—and when you pulled back you smiled like sunlight. “Let’s go meet them,” you said.
Sukuna adjusted Yuuji against his chest and glanced at the door, then back at you, like he was bracing for impact.
And somewhere inside Yuuji’s swaddle, your son stretched once in his sleep, tiny fist pressing into Sukuna’s sweater like he already belonged to every future you were about to step into.
The drive there felt like holding your breath on purpose.
Not because you were afraid of the place—Kaori had given you the address with hands that trembled, like she was offering a fragile thing—but because you could feel Sukuna beside you, silent in that way he got when his thoughts were too loud. He drove with both hands on the wheel, knuckles pale, jaw set, eyes forward. Yuuji slept in the backseat, bundled up like a tiny loaf of warmth, his soft breaths the only steady sound in the car.
You watched the scenery roll past—trees stripped bare in winter, lawns dusted with old leaves, the occasional dog behind a fence. It didn’t feel like the movies. It felt… real. Ordinary. Like any family could live here. Like peace didn’t have to be dramatic to be true.
Sukuna slowed when the neighborhood changed from sparse to gently clustered. Modest homes. Mailboxes. Driveways with chalk drawings fading into the concrete. A basketball hoop leaning slightly on a garage like it had survived a thousand teen summers.
He pulled up to a house that wasn’t big, but it looked cared for. White siding, a small porch, a wreath that still hung even though the holidays had passed. Warm light in the front windows. A quiet kind of welcome.
Sukuna turned the engine off.
The silence that followed was soft and thick.
You glanced at him. “You okay?” He didn’t look at you at first. His gaze stayed on the house, on the steps, on the porch railing—like he was measuring the distance between who he was and who he’d been. “I’m fine,” he said, voice low.
You didn’t argue. You just reached across the console and rested your hand on his forearm. Not to pull. Not to fix. Just to remind him he wasn’t walking into this alone.
His muscles stayed tight for a beat, then eased—barely—but you felt it. Like a door inside him cracked open the tiniest amount.
You both got out.
The cold hit your cheeks, sharp and clean. Sukuna moved around the car with that protective urgency that lived in him like instinct, opening the back door before you could. He leaned in and unbuckled Yuuji with careful hands, lifting him like he was made of glass and starlight. Yuuji stirred, made a sleepy little sound, then melted back into Sukuna’s chest.
You came around to Sukuna’s side, smoothing Yuuji’s blanket, touching that pale pink hair that always made your heart squeeze—proof of where he came from, proof of where he’d arrived.
The front door opened before you reached the porch.
Kaori stepped out like she’d been waiting there for hours.
Her long black hair spilled down her back today, not pinned away like it was at the hospital. She wore something soft—an oversized cardigan the color of oatmeal, a simple top underneath, leggings, socks. No uniform. No badge. Just… a woman. Just a mother. Just a person who had made a choice once and lived with its echoes.
Her eyes landed on you first, and her face changed—brightening, softening, relief and love flooding in like sunlight breaking through a window. “Oh,” she breathed, and it sounded like a prayer.
She hurried down the steps, hands lifting like she didn’t want to startle you, like she’d learned gentleness the hard way. “Hi,” she said, voice trembling. “Hi, sweetheart.” You smiled, and it came easy. “Hi.”
Kaori’s fingertips brushed your cheek the way someone checks if you’re real. The touch was featherlight, reverent. Her eyes shone as she pulled you into a hug, careful, warm, lingering.
When she stepped back, she looked at Sukuna’s arms—at the bundle there—and she cooed softly like she couldn’t help it.
“Oh my, the most beautiful boy,” she whispered. “Hi, Yuuji…” Sukuna shifted slightly, instinctively angling the baby closer to his body—protective, reflexive—yet he didn’t turn away. He let her lean in. He let her look.
Kaori’s hand hovered, uncertain, then she gently touched the blanket near Yuuji’s shoulder. Not his skin. Just the edge of his world.
“He’s so beautiful,” she murmured, voice thick. “He’s so… calm.” You nodded, smiling as Yuuji made another sleepy sound. “He likes being held.” Kaori laughed under her breath, teary. “Of course he does.”
Then her gaze lifted to Sukuna.
And the air changed.
Not in a bad way—just in a heavy way.
Like the space between a mother and a son she hadn’t touched in nineteen years still didn’t know what to do with itself.
Kaori swallowed. Her eyes shined harder. She looked at him like she wanted to step forward and wrap her arms around him like he was still ten and small and hers—like she could undo time with a hug—but she didn’t.
She didn’t assume she’d earned that.
Instead, she reached out and rubbed his arm gently, fingertips pressing through the knit of his sweater like she was reminding herself: he’s here. he’s real. he’s grown.
“Hi, Sukuna,” she said, voice careful.
Sukuna’s throat bobbed. His face stayed controlled, but you saw the flicker—something sharp and old, something tender trying to survive it.
“Hey,” he replied, curt, but not cruel.
Kaori nodded, as if grateful for even that.
“Come in,” she said softly. “Please. It’s warm inside.” She guided you up the steps and into the house like she was holding a fragile bowl of water and didn’t want to spill a drop.
Inside, the warmth wrapped around you immediately—radiator heat and the faint scent of something baked earlier, cinnamon or vanilla, something domestic and safe. The living room was modest, tidy, lived-in. A throw blanket on the couch. A stack of school papers on a side table. A small pile of shoes by the door. A house that looked like laughter happened here, like homework got done here, like someone yelled “Dinner!” and meant it.
And then Sukuna stopped.
Not dramatically—just… stilled.
His eyes went to the wall.
Photos.
A long line of frames arranged with care. Not just the obvious ones—Noah in a sports jersey, Emily with braces and a shy smile, Kaori with an American man you could guess was Daniel, arms around her at some barbecue—
But there, threaded between them like heartbeat and memory—
Sukuna.
Sukuna at four, holding something in his hands with a proud grin missing a tooth.
Sukuna at six, hair messy, cheeks chubby, looking into the camera like he didn’t know the world could ever be cruel.
Sukuna at nine, standing beside Kaori, her arm around him, both of them smiling in a snapshot that looked sun-warmed and ordinary.
And another at ten—his face more serious, eyes sharper already, as if something inside him had begun to understand.
The photos weren’t new.
They weren’t staged for today.
You could tell by the slight fading at the edges, the older frames mixed in with newer ones, the way the wall looked settled. Like these memories had been displayed for years. Like she’d kept him here—in her home, in her daily life—even when she couldn’t keep him in her arms.
Sukuna stared.
You saw his chest rise a fraction too fast.
Kaori noticed his gaze. She paused, then spoke quietly, almost like she didn’t want to scare him with the truth.
“I never took them down,” she said. “Not once.” Sukuna didn’t answer. His jaw flexed.
But his eyes didn’t move away.
Kaori turned toward the hallway. “They’re here,” she called, voice lifting. “They’re here, come say hello.”
Footsteps thudded upstairs. A door opened. Another closed. The sound of teenagers being hurried into something they’d been both excited and terrified about.
A moment later, a boy appeared first—tall for fifteen, lanky in that growing-into-himself way, wearing a hoodie and socks, hair in his face like he’d tried and failed to tame it. His eyes went wide the second he saw Sukuna.
“Oh my—” Noah blurted, then stopped himself like he remembered manners. “Hi.”
He stared openly, awe written all over him, like Sukuna was a myth Kaori had kept alive with stories.
Behind him came a girl—Emily. Thirteen, quieter, slower, her hair pulled back, face composed but eyes sharp. She didn’t rush in. She observed. Like she was taking in every detail and deciding what it meant.
Then another figure appeared—Daniel.
He was an American man, mid-fifties maybe, kind-eyed, average height—until he stood near Sukuna and became very obviously not average height. He had the look of someone who’d learned how to be gentle on purpose. The kind of person who smiles with his whole face and means it.
“Hello,” Daniel said warmly, stepping forward with a hand half-raised, then pausing like he wasn’t sure if Sukuna would accept a handshake. “You must be Sukuna.”
Sukuna’s eyes flicked to the hand, then to Daniel’s face.
He didn’t move immediately.
You could feel the tension—Sukuna measuring him, weighing him, scanning for threat out of habit more than malice.
Kaori’s hands clasped together in front of her like she was holding herself together.
Then Sukuna extended his hand—brief, firm, controlled. A handshake like a contract.
Daniel didn’t seem offended. He squeezed once, steady, respectful. “I’m Daniel,” he said. “It’s… good to meet you. We’re glad you’re here.”
Noah couldn’t contain himself any longer. “You’re—” he started, then looked at Kaori like he needed permission to be too excited.
Kaori’s mouth trembled into a smile. “Go ahead,” she murmured.
Noah stepped closer, eyes wide, voice bursting with admiration. “You’re huge. Like—sorry. But you’re huge. And you look like—like those boxers on TV. Mom was not exaggerating.”
Kaori made a soft sound, half laugh, half sob, and she stepped beside Sukuna like she couldn’t help herself. Her eyes shone as she looked up at him.
“My first baby,” she said, so fond it hurt. “So strong. So beautiful. You’ve been strong since the day you were born.”
The words landed in the room like a blanket.
Sukuna’s face tightened, and for a second you thought he might snap—might reject it out of reflex, might shove tenderness away because it had once been taken from him.
But something in his expression shifted instead.
A small, almost invisible crack in the armor.
His eyes dropped—not in shame, but in something like… being overwhelmed.
You saw his throat work.
His shoulders loosened a fraction.
Just a fraction.
And for Sukuna, it was everything.
Emily finally stepped forward, gaze not on Sukuna but on you—on your arms, where Yuuji slept.
Her eyes softened.
“Is that him?” she asked quietly, voice careful. “The baby?” You smiled. “This is Yuuji.” Emily leaned closer, slow, respectful, like she didn’t want to intrude. “He’s… really cute.”
Kaori’s expression brightened. “He has Sukuna’s hair,” she said softly, amazed again. “That color… I never thought I’d see it again in a baby.” Noah grinned. “He’s like a tiny Sukuna.” Sukuna immediately scoffed, defensive on instinct. “He’s calmer.”
“That’s because of her,” Kaori said gently, glancing at you with gratitude. “You,” she added softly, voice thick. “You must be his calm.” You felt warmth rise behind your eyes. “Maybe,” you whispered, brushing a finger over Yuuji’s cheek.
Noah rocked on his heels, excitement bubbling. “I always wanted a big brother,” he said suddenly, earnest and bright. “Mom always talked about you. She always said if you were here, you’d be the best big brother in the world.”
Kaori’s eyes shimmered. She nodded quickly, like she was afraid if she didn’t confirm it out loud, the moment would slip away.
“I did,” she admitted softly. “I did talk about you. All the time.” Sukuna looked at her then—really looked.
And you saw it in his face: confusion, pain, disbelief… and something else that didn’t have a name yet. Something that resembled the beginning of understanding.
Daniel cleared his throat gently, sensing the heaviness and trying to keep the room from tipping into it too fast. “We made tea,” he offered. “And—uh—Kaori’s been cooking since sunrise.”
Kaori blinked, almost startled by the reminder of normalcy, then smiled. “Yes,” she said quickly. “Please. Sit. You must be tired, and you”—she looked at you, voice soft—“you must need to rest. Let me take the baby for a moment if you want, I—”
Her hands lifted again, hovering, uncertain.
Sukuna’s posture shifted immediately, protective energy flaring like a silent warning.
But you stepped closer and touched Sukuna’s arm—grounding him.
“It’s okay,” you murmured, and then you smiled at Kaori. “You can hold him. Just… sit down first so you’re comfortable.” Kaori’s eyes blurred. “Okay,” she whispered.
Sukuna watched you both, jaw clenched, but he didn’t stop it.
He didn’t pull you away.
He stood there, tall and tense and trying so hard not to be ten years old again, while his mother—his mother—looked at his child with trembling hands and a face full of longing.
Noah leaned in again, unable to help himself. “This is crazy,” he breathed. “I can’t believe you’re actually here.”
Emily glanced up at Sukuna, then back to you and the baby, and her voice came quiet and sincere. “Welcome,” she said.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t perfect.
But it was real.
And in that modest living room—beneath walls that held old photos and new hope—you felt something settle.
Not everything was healed.
Not everything was forgiven.
But the door had opened.
And everyone in the room could feel it.
Everyone settled into the living room like they were trying not to breathe too loud.
Kaori took the armchair closest to the couch, Yuuji cradled in her arms like a secret she’d been allowed to hold again. Daniel sat beside her, one hand resting on the arm of the chair—steady, supportive, watching Sukuna the way you watch a storm you’re hoping will pass without thunder. Noah folded himself into a corner of the couch, knees bouncing with barely-contained excitement. Emily sat straighter, quieter, eyes doing most of her talking—taking in Sukuna’s posture, the way his shoulders stayed high, the way his gaze kept scanning the room even though there was nothing to scan for.
And Sukuna… Sukuna sat like he didn’t fully trust the cushions to hold him.
You eased in close, pressed a kiss to his cheek, and whispered like a small spell, “Everything is okay. Everyone is safe.”
His jaw flexed, then he nodded—gentle, brief—like he was accepting your words as instruction.
Emily’s eyes flicked between him and you, and you could see the question forming before she asked it—careful and curious, not rude.
“So…” she started, voice soft. “What was it like being raised in Japan?”
Sukuna looked up.
Paused.
You saw it—how that question touched something sharp under his ribs. Japan wasn’t just a place to him. It was his father’s hands. It was locked doors. It was doctors’ eyes that looked through him. It was a ward that swallowed names whole and returned people like ghosts.
He swallowed once, hard.
His gaze slid to Yuuji, to the soft pink hair tucked against Kaori’s sweater.
Then he cleared his throat and said, flatly, “America’s better.” The room stilled, confused by the bluntness.
Sukuna didn’t care.
“It’s safer,” he added, voice lower, eyes hard in a way that didn’t belong in this warm, photo-lined house. “For her. For the baby.”
Emily blinked, brow knitting. Noah stopped bouncing for a second. Daniel’s expression tightened with concern, but he didn’t interrupt.
Kaori’s hands tightened around Yuuji, protective without thinking.
Sukuna exhaled like the truth had nowhere else to go but out.
“I tried to burn my own house down,” he said, almost casually—like it was a weather report. “Ended up in an institution. Met her there.” He nodded toward you without looking away from the room. “Protected her. We escaped. Fled to China. Then we fled here.”
The silence after that was huge.
Noah’s mouth fell open.
Emily’s eyes widened so far you could see the whites all around, disbelief and fascination tangled together.
Daniel’s face went pale, his gaze flicking to Kaori like he was silently asking is this real?
Kaori looked like she’d been punched in the chest—because it was real. Because she knew exactly what monsters had lived in Sukuna’s past, even if she hadn’t been there to stop them.
You smiled gently, softening the sharp edges before they cut anyone.
You leaned forward slightly, voice calm, warm—anchoring the room.
“Sukuna and I… we both have mental things that needed correction,” you said carefully, not ashamed, just honest. “And since moving here, life has been better. Calmer.”
You glanced at Sukuna, then back at them, your tone still gentle.
“In Japan, it meant iron doors,” you admitted quietly. “It meant being locked away. We can’t go back. But… we love America so far. It gave us the chance to start fresh. Start a new life.”
Noah let out a loud breath like he’d been holding it in by accident.
“So you guys were in, like—” he started, then looked at Kaori, then at Daniel, then back to you, eyes huge. “Like a mental institution like in the movies?”
But before the room could crack, he forced a breath through his nose, the new medication holding him like a leash made of silk instead of chain.
“Those movies are made by fools,” Sukuna muttered. “And those places…” His jaw clenched. “They don’t fix people. They break them. They made us sicker, not better.”
His gaze slid to you, and the sharpness softened just enough to show what was underneath.
“I protected her,” he said, simple and absolute. “I got her out.” You touched his knee, a quiet thank-you, then smiled at the room like you were turning a page before the story bled too much.
“That’s a tough topic,” you said softly, eyes kind. “Maybe we can talk about something lighter.”
You turned toward Noah and Emily, voice brightening naturally.
“What grades are you both in?” you asked. “And what do you like to do outside of school?”
Noah practically sprang to life again, grateful for the escape. “I’m in tenth,” he said quickly. “I play basketball, and I’m trying to get stronger—” His eyes flicked to Sukuna and he grinned. “Which is hard when your big brother looks like he can lift a car.”
Emily rolled her eyes fondly, but her mouth twitched like she wanted to smile. “Eighth grade,” she said, quieter. “I like drawing. And I help Mom sometimes with the—” she glanced at Yuuji—“house stuff, I guess.”
Kaori’s face softened as she rocked Yuuji gently, the baby’s tiny body rising and falling like a quiet song.
Daniel cleared his throat, grateful too, and leaned toward you with a warm, careful curiosity.
“And you?” he asked. “How are you feeling? Two weeks postpartum… you’re doing amazing.” You smiled, cheeks warming. “I feel… happy,” you admitted, like it was still surprising. “Tired, but happy.”
Daniel nodded, then looked at Sukuna, voice polite. “And what do you do for work here?”
Sukuna straightened a fraction, as if work was a language he could speak without bleeding.
“Construction,” he answered. “Hard labor. It’s fine.” Daniel smiled, trying to make it lighter. “I bet the other guys ask for your help constantly.” Kaori’s face lit up instantly, pride spilling out before she could stop it.
“He’s the strongest,” she said, fond and fierce. Then, softer—almost embarrassed by her own honesty—“He always was.”
Noah beamed like he’d been given permission to worship openly. Emily watched Kaori’s face, and you could see her understanding settle deeper: Mom really loves him. Not as a story. As a person. As her son.
You shifted Yuuji’s diaper bag strap on your shoulder and added gently, “We share a home with my brother, Hiro, and my best friend, Sumire—she’s dating Hiro now.”
Emily’s eyes brightened. “Japanese names are so cool,” she said, genuine admiration in her voice. “Like… Sumire. And Yuuji. And Sukuna—” Noah snorted. “Sukuna sounds like a final boss.” Sukuna scoffed, but it was almost amused. Almost.
Kaori rocked Yuuji and murmured, “My first baby,” again—so soft it nearly disappeared, but it landed anyway.
Sukuna didn’t respond.
But you saw the way his shoulders loosened—just a little—under the weight of being spoken about with love instead of fear.
And in that modest living room, surrounded by old photos and new beginnings, the truth sat among you all: messy, unbelievable, human—
Yet somehow… still warm.
Dinner gathered everyone the way warmth gathers people—quietly, inevitably, like the house itself was saying come here, sit, be human for a while.
Kaori led the way, and Daniel followed with plates in hand. Noah slid into a chair like he’d been invited to a party he’d waited years to attend. Emily trailed last, still watching everything with those careful eyes.
Sukuna didn’t wait for anyone to offer help.
He pulled out the travel bassinet with that blunt, competent efficiency of his—unfolded it, snapped the sides into place, checked the stability twice like he didn’t trust anything in the world that wasn’t his own hands.
Then he set it beside your chair, close enough that his knee brushed the frame when he sat.
You smiled, already aching in that soft postpartum way, and when you felt Yuuji rooting—little mouth searching, impatient—you reached for your cover and settled it over your shoulder.
You latched him on, and the relief in your body was immediate, like a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.
A plate was placed in front of you—steaming, fragrant, gentle food made with care.
Emily’s cheeks went pink even though she couldn’t see a thing.
She stared at the cover like it was doing magic. “Why is he… doing that?” she asked, voice a little too loud from pure surprise.
Kaori’s face colored.
Daniel cleared his throat and suddenly became very interested in his fork.
You tried not to laugh because you could feel your own face warming too, but it came out anyway—soft and fond. “It’s okay,” you said gently. “I make milk. And I feed him like this because it’s good for him.”
Emily’s eyes widened so far it looked like she might fall off her chair. “That’s… that’s so crazy,” she whispered, stunned. “Like… that’s a real thing. That happens in real life.”
Noah snorted into his water and then tried to cover it as a cough.
Daniel shook his head with a helpless smile, amused and embarrassed all at once.
Kaori, still pink, murmured, “She’s doing wonderfully,” like she needed everyone to understand it wasn’t weird—it was beautiful.
Dinner began in small, ordinary bites.
The clink of silverware, the soft scrape of plates, the gentle hum of conversation returning now that the shock had passed.
Sukuna ate like he always did—quick, efficient—until he noticed you trying to juggle everything: the cover, your posture, the plate, the subtle need to not spill anything on a sleeping newborn’s head.
His fork paused midair.
Without a word, he shifted closer, took his own fork, and scooped a bite from your plate.
He held it to your mouth like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Open,” he murmured.
You did, cheeks warming, and the moment the food hit your tongue you hummed—soft, pleased, the sound barely more than a breath.
But Sukuna heard it like it was music.
His eyes softened, mouth twitching toward a smile, and he leaned down and kissed you—quick, gentle—right at the corner of your lips, careful of the cover, careful of the baby.
Your heart squeezed.
Kaori watched it like she was watching a miracle.
Daniel’s smile grew, slow and warm, like he was thinking so this is what they look like when they’re safe.
Emily blinked hard, then looked away, pretending she hadn’t seen anything.
Noah grinned openly, like he’d just been handed proof that the scary, enormous brother he’d imagined was real—and also, somehow… soft.
Yuuji finished and unlatched with a sleepy little sigh, his body going loose and heavy in your arms—milk-drunk and satisfied.
His pale pink hair stuck up slightly at the crown, ridiculous and perfect.
You kissed his forehead beneath the cover, then eased him down into the bassinet.
Sukuna hovered like a shadow until he was sure Yuuji’s breathing stayed steady. He tucked the blanket around him with hands that could crush concrete and somehow only ever moved gently when it came to your son.
Noah waited exactly two seconds after Sukuna sat back down.
“So… do you like sports?” Noah asked, eyes shining. “Like basketball? Or— I don’t know— MMA?” Sukuna’s brow lifted, unimpressed by the categories.
“I like baseball,” he said simply. “Watching. Sometimes.” Noah looked personally offended. “Baseball?”
“It’s quiet,” Sukuna replied, like that explained everything. “And I’m usually busy.” Emily’s curiosity seemed braver now, encouraged by Noah’s ease.
“What about hobbies?” she asked. “Like… what do you do for fun?”
Sukuna didn’t hesitate.
His gaze slid to you.
To your mouth, your cheeks, the way you were still faintly flushed from nursing. “To take care of her,” he said.
Simple. Flat. Like it wasn’t even a romantic answer—just a fact. Like breathing.
You blushed so hard it felt like your face might combust. You leaned in and kissed his cheek, just once, soft and grateful.
Daniel smiled, eyes crinkling. “You two are very fond of one another,” he said, voice warm with the kind of observation that wasn’t teasing—just… pleased.
You nodded, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “It was a long road,” you admitted softly, fingers brushing your own plate, then reaching for Sukuna’s wrist like you needed to touch him to keep yourself steady. “But… he’s the love of my life. He’s my first love. My first everything.”
You looked at Sukuna then, your eyes shining.
“And my last.”
Sukuna went still.
Like your words hit somewhere deep and old.
His jaw clenched once, but not in anger—more like he was holding something in, trying not to let it show.
Kaori’s eyes blurred with tears at the table, and she blinked fast, pretending she wasn’t crying.
Emily stared at you with that quiet awe teenagers get when adults say something real and terrifyingly sincere.
Noah’s grin softened.
Daniel cleared his throat again, gently moved the conversation forward, saving everyone from the feeling in the room getting too big.
“So,” you said, turning toward him with a bright smile that was still a little watery, “what about you, Daniel? What do you do? Kaori told me a little, but I want to hear it from you.” Daniel relaxed, grateful for the pivot.
He explained his work—steady, modest, practical—and every now and then Kaori chimed in, proud in that soft way mothers are when they love someone and don’t know how not to show it.
“Oh, he’s very good at it,” she’d add.
Or, “He works hard.”
Or, “He’s patient,” said like it mattered, like it was a treasure.
And as they talked, you watched Sukuna in the warm light of the dining room, one hand resting on your thigh beneath the table, thumb idly stroking in a slow, grounding rhythm.
Across from you, Kaori kept glancing at him—her first baby—her eyes shining with grief and joy braided together so tightly you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
And for the length of that dinner—between questions and laughter, between feeding and kissing and the soft sleep of a newborn—your life felt almost ordinary.
Back in the living room, the air loosened.
Dinner had been warm, but this—this was softer. The kind of softness that came after food and truth, when people stop performing and start simply being.
Kaori disappeared for a moment and returned with a thick photo album hugged to her chest like it weighed more than paper. She set it on the coffee table with careful hands, then opened it like she was opening a window to a time she’d carried alone.
“Okay,” she murmured, voice bright but trembling at the edges. “This one first.” You scooted closer, Yuuji asleep in the bassinet near the couch, his tiny chest rising and falling like a quiet promise. Sukuna sat beside you—big body folded into the cushions like a reluctant guardian—one arm behind you, not quite touching, but close enough that you could feel his heat.
Kaori turned the first page.
And there he was.
Sukuna—small, dark-eyed, hair too neat in some pictures and wild in others, always with something sharp in his expression like he’d been born already daring the world to try him.
You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt.
“Oh my god,” you whispered, reverent. “Look at him.” Kaori’s face softened. “He was… always intense,” she said, and the word sounded like a fond apology. “Even as a baby.”
She pointed to each picture, narrating like a storyteller who’d been waiting years for an audience.
“That was his first day of kindergarten,” she said, tapping the plastic sleeve. “He bit another child. Not because the child hurt him—because the child took his toy and Sukuna decided that meant war.”
Sukuna made a low sound in his throat—half scoff, half groan. “That kid deserved it.”
Daniel’s mouth twitched. Noah burst into laughter.
Kaori flipped again.
A photo of Sukuna at five—tiny body, bare feet, cheeks rounder than you expected—and there it was: that mischievous, almost wicked little smile, eyes narrowed like he was about to do something bad and enjoy it.
You giggled, unable to stop it. “That face,” you said brightly, pointing. “He still makes that face right before he bites me—playfully.”
Sukuna’s cheeks went hot so fast it was almost comical. You watched the color climb his face, watched his jaw tighten like he wanted to pretend he didn’t care.
But he didn’t move away.
Didn’t deny it.
Just muttered, rough and quiet, “You like it.”
Noah laughed even louder, slapping his knee like he’d just discovered the funniest fact in the universe.
“Wait,” Noah said, leaning forward, eyes sparkling. “So my big brother is… affectionate?”
You didn’t even have to think.
“He’s very affectionate,” you said, soft certainty in your voice, like it was something you’d learned in your bones.
Noah made a sound of disbelief. “That’s crazy. Guys at my school act like affection is a sign of weakness. Like they’re too cool for it.” He rolled his eyes dramatically. “And then their girlfriends break up with them because they act like rocks.”
Sukuna scoffed, leaning back like he couldn’t believe boys were allowed to be that stupid.
“I’m obsessed with her,” he said plainly, like it wasn’t embarrassing—like it was a badge. His hand found your thigh beneath the blanket and squeezed once, grounding, possessive, warm. “I always want to be with her. Giving your wife affection is nothing a real man should be ashamed of.”
His gaze flicked to Noah—sharp, instructive, big-brother brutal without trying.
“Every man should be obsessed with their wife.”
You felt your chest bloom with heat, not just from the words, but from the way he said it—like devotion was obvious, like love wasn’t something to ration.
Emily blushed so hard she looked like she might float away.
But she smiled, shy and sweet.
“My papa is like that,” she said softly. “He’s very sweet to Mama. Mama cries a lot because she’s… sensitive.” Her voice softened on the last word like it was a secret they all protected. “And Papa is always on her side.”
Kaori’s lips parted in that little, embarrassed smile of someone being lovingly exposed. She tried to wave it off, but you could see the tenderness in her eyes.
You turned to Emily with a gentle smile.
“Sukuna is like that too,” you said. “When I cry… he kisses my tears until I forget why I cried.” Sukuna grunted, like he didn’t want to be called soft.
But he didn’t correct you.
Kaori’s fingers paused on the page.
For a moment she just looked at Sukuna—really looked—like she was mapping the man onto the boy in the photos, trying to understand the years she missed, the growth she didn’t witness.
Then, carefully, as if offering something fragile, she said, “My sweet boy.”
The room changed.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic.
It was quieter than that—like someone had opened an old door and the air from a childhood room had drifted into the present.
Sukuna’s head snapped up.
His throat tightened visibly, like the words had caught there and refused to pass.
His eyes shone—quick, involuntary—and he looked away immediately, turning his face toward the window like he could pretend the light was the problem.
You watched him swallow.
Watched his shoulders tense the way they did when he was trying not to be pulled under by something.
“I’m not sweet,” he muttered, voice rough. “I’m just… a man who loves deeply.”
Kaori’s smile trembled.
And then, with the certainty of a mother who knew his softness before the world taught him to hide it, she reached out and brushed her fingertips over his arm—barely there, asking permission without words.
“You were always a sweet boy,” she said gently. “Even when you tried to scare everyone.” Noah’s grin softened into something almost tender.
Daniel’s gaze stayed steady—quiet support, no pressure.
Emily blinked fast, watching the way Sukuna’s mouth pressed into a line like he was holding himself together with teeth and pride.
You didn’t force anything.
You simply leaned into him, shoulder brushing his, and let your hand find his under the blanket.
Your fingers threaded through his like a promise: I’m here. I saw it too. You don’t have to be alone in this.
Kaori turned the page again, as if keeping the moment from breaking them all open.
And the photos continued—little Sukuna running, pouting, laughing despite himself—while the man beside you sat very still, listening to his mother’s voice describe his childhood like it mattered.
Like he mattered.
Like he always had.
Sukuna didn’t say much anymore.
You watched him from the corner of your eye while Yuuji fed again, warm and needy against you. Sukuna’s posture stayed rigid—shoulders broad, jaw set—but his eyes… his eyes betrayed him. They lingered too long on the photos. They softened in places they weren’t supposed to.
And then you saw it: the shimmer.
A thin, dangerous shine gathering at the lower rim of his lashes, as if his body couldn’t decide whether to keep him armored or let him bleed.
Because for his whole life he’d carried one ugly belief like a stone in his chest:
She didn’t love me.
That she left because she wanted to. That she forgot. That he wasn’t worth returning for.
But watching Kaori talk—watching her smile at pictures of him like she was touching a wound she’d never stopped tending—made something inside him crack open, slow and merciless.
Kaori pointed to one photo, her voice softening.
“You used to insist on holding my sleeve like this,” she said, laughing quietly. “Like you thought if you let go, I would disappear.”
Sukuna’s throat bobbed.
His nostrils flared once, sharp, like he was angry at his own lungs for needing air. He stood up abruptly, chair legs scraping the floor.
“I’m—” His voice came out rough. He cleared his throat hard. “I need a minute.” You lifted your head, instinctively wanting to follow, wanting to reach, wanting to fix—
But Yuuji was latched, and your body was tethered to this small, hungry life.
Kaori’s hand came down gently on your knee—grounding, careful. Her eyes met yours with quiet understanding. “Don’t worry, focus on nursing,” she murmured. “I’ll be right back.”
And then she followed him.
Outside, the air was colder than the living room, sharper. The sun had dropped a little, turning the edges of the world gold and flat, like a photograph.
Sukuna stood near the front steps, facing away from the door, shoulders heaving once like he’d just swallowed something too big. He lifted the heel of his palm to his face and wiped aggressively at his eyes, like the tears were an insult.
“Get it the fuck together,” he muttered to himself, voice low and furious. “Get it together.” Kaori stepped out quietly, closing the door behind her with a soft click.
For a moment she simply watched him, as if she was memorizing the shape of her son grown into a man—huge, scarred, still carrying the same lonely tension.
She approached slowly. Carefully.
Then she reached out and placed her hand lightly on his back.
Sukuna spun around like a cornered animal.
His eyes were red. His pupils—already naturally intense, that deep crimson—looked even brighter now, blown wide by emotion.
Kaori didn’t flinch.
She opened her arms.
Not demanding.
Not forcing.
Just offering.
An invitation.
Sukuna swallowed so hard, Kaori saw it in his throat. His jaw worked like he was chewing through pride.
And then—like his body made the decision before his mind could argue—he stepped forward.
He wrapped his arms around her waist and folded down, crouching so he could fit into her embrace, this towering man bending like he was trying to become small again for just a second. His forehead pressed into her shoulder. His breath came harsh and uneven.
Kaori’s arms went around him immediately—tight, trembling—her hands sliding up and down his back the way mothers do when they’re trying to soothe a storm.
“Oh, Suku…” she whispered, voice cracking on the nickname like it had been waiting in her throat for nineteen years. “I missed you so very much.”
Sukuna made a sound—low, broken—and his grip tightened.
“I missed my sweet boy,” Kaori continued, kissing the side of his head through his hair, over and over, like she was trying to make up for every year she wasn’t allowed to. “I’m so sorry your life has been so hard. So lonely. So painful.”
His shoulders shook.
Kaori’s hands kept moving, rubbing his back, cradling the back of his head.
“I should have fought even harder,” she said, voice wet now. “I should have taken the risk. I should have—” Sukuna shook his head against her shoulder, sharp and adamant, like the words were knives.
A rough sob tore out of him anyway, ugly and involuntary.
“No,” he rasped, voice breaking. “No—don’t—” Kaori pulled back just enough to look at his face.
Her eyes were glassy. Her cheeks were damp already. “Don’t what?” she whispered.
Sukuna’s mouth opened and closed once like he didn’t know how to talk to her. Like he didn’t know how to be a son.
“I spent my whole life thinking you didn’t love me,” he said finally, words dragged out of his chest like they hurt to touch. “I spent my whole fucking life believing you left me because you wanted to.”
Kaori’s face crumpled.
“Oh, baby…” she breathed, reaching up to hold his cheeks—hands small against the sharp planes of his jaw. “No. No, no—”
Sukuna squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them, the tears spilled faster, furious now.
“You didn’t come back,” he said, voice rising, shaking with old anger. “You didn’t—” He choked hard. “You didn’t even try.” Kaori shook her head quickly, desperate.
“I did,” she whispered. “I did try.” Sukuna let out a harsh laugh that wasn’t a laugh at all.
“Then why wasn’t I enough?”
The question landed between them like a brick.
Kaori’s breath hitched—pain flashing across her face so raw you could see it like an open wound.
“Oh, Sukuna…” she whispered, pulling him back into her, holding him tighter. “You were enough. You were always enough. You were my first baby. My first love.”
Sukuna’s hands clenched in the fabric of her shirt like he was afraid she’d disappear if he loosened his grip.
Kaori kept speaking into his hair, voice shaking, words tumbling out in confession.
“I kept your pictures on my walls because it was the only way I could see you,” she said softly. “I kept your name in my mouth like a prayer, even when I wasn’t allowed to say it out loud. I thought about you every day.”
Sukuna’s shoulders trembled harder.
“Your father…” Kaori swallowed, voice tightening. “He made it impossible. Every time I tried to contact him—every time I tried to ask to see you—he refused. He threatened me. He told me if I ever came near you, he would—” Her voice broke. “He would make sure I never walked again.”
Sukuna went still.
His head lifted a fraction.
Kaori’s hands slid up to cup his face again, wiping his tears with her thumbs the way she must have done when he was little.
“I was so afraid,” she whispered, shame and grief braided together. “I was afraid of him. And I was afraid for you. He used you as a weapon against me, Sukuna. Every time I tried to fight, he hurt me worse.”
Sukuna’s jaw clenched, rage flickering, but it was old rage now—tired, worn down by time.
“You should’ve taken me,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “You should’ve—”
“I tried,” Kaori cried, the words ripping out of her. “I tried to get custody. I tried to prove he was dangerous. And he—he—” She shook her head, sobbing now. “He convinced the court I was insane. He made me look unstable. He made them believe I was delusional.”
Sukuna’s eyes flashed.
“That’s what you do to someone to bury them,” he muttered, bitterness thick. “You call them crazy.” Kaori nodded, tears spilling. “Yes.”
Sukuna’s breathing came heavy through his nose.
For a long moment he stared at her like he was trying to reconcile the two versions of her in his mind: the mother who disappeared… and the woman standing here, grieving, shaking, hands still reaching for him.
“You moved across the world,” he said, voice low, accusing and wounded. “You started over.”
Kaori flinched, then nodded, swallowing hard.
“I did,” she whispered. “Because I thought if I stayed, he would kill me. And if I died, I’d never have a chance—any chance—to find you again someday. I told myself I would get strong. I would become someone he couldn’t crush. I became a nurse. I built a life. I kept your photos. I kept the space in me that belonged to you.”
She lifted her trembling hand and pressed it to his chest, right over his heart.
“This space,” she whispered. “It never belonged to anyone else.” Sukuna’s mouth tightened, trembling with the effort not to collapse completely.
“I was alone,” he said, and it came out smaller than he meant it to. “I was… so fucking alone.”
Kaori broke.
She pulled him back into her arms with a strangled sob, cradling him like he was still ten, like she could gather up all the years and wrap them around him like a blanket.
“I know,” she cried. “I know. And I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, my sweet boy.” Sukuna’s hands wrapped around her again, tighter now. Not angry. Just desperate.
“I hated you,” he admitted, voice muffled into her shoulder. “I hated you for leaving. I hated you because it was easier than… missing you.” Kaori’s voice went soft, trembling. “I understand.”
Sukuna shook his head.
“No, you don’t,” he rasped, tears falling freely now. “You don’t know what it was like to be in that house with him. You don’t know what it—” His voice broke hard. “What it did to me.”
Kaori’s grip tightened.
“I can’t change what happened,” she whispered. “But I’m here now. And I’m not leaving again.” Sukuna’s shoulders jerked, another rough sob tearing out.
Kaori kept stroking his back, over and over, like she could smooth the years out of him.
“You don’t have to be tough with me,” she murmured. “Not right now. Not outside in the cold. Not when you’re bleeding like this.”
Sukuna let out a shuddering breath.
His voice came smaller, almost childlike despite the depth of it. “I didn’t think anyone missed me,” he whispered.
Kaori pulled back just enough to look at him—eyes wet, face open, aching with love.
“I missed you every day,” she said. “And when I saw you in that hallway just now… I thought my heart would stop. I thought—” She laughed through a sob. “I thought I was hallucinating.”
Sukuna huffed something that might’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t so broken.
Kaori wiped his cheeks gently again, then kissed his forehead—slow, deliberate, like she was sealing something.
“You found love,” she whispered, glancing briefly toward the door, toward where you were inside with Yuuji. “You found a family. You made a home. After everything… you did that.”
Sukuna’s eyes flicked toward the house too, expression softening in a way you rarely saw.
“She saved me,” he muttered. “She doesn’t even know she did.” Kaori’s smile trembled, but it was warm. “She sees you,” she whispered. “That’s what you needed. Someone who sees you and doesn’t run.”
Sukuna inhaled, shaky.
Then, quieter—so quiet it sounded like surrender—he said, “I didn’t know you loved me.” Kaori’s face crumpled again.
“Oh, baby,” she whispered. “I loved you before you were even born. I loved you the moment I knew you existed. I loved you when you were screaming and colicky and exhausting. I loved you when you bit kids and scared teachers. I loved you when you said you hated me for making you eat vegetables.”
Sukuna’s mouth twitched—almost a smile.
Kaori touched his cheek, thumb gentle at the corner of his eye. “I loved you when I left,” she whispered. “And I hated myself for it.”Sukuna’s breath shuddered.
For a long moment he just held her again, forehead resting against hers, both of them trembling in the quiet.
And when he finally spoke, his voice was still rough—but less sharp.
“Don’t… don’t call me sweet boy in front of everyone,” he muttered.
Kaori let out a wet little laugh. “Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll try.” Sukuna exhaled hard, like the air had been trapped in his chest for nineteen years.
Then he leaned in again, just once more, letting himself fit in her arms without fighting it—letting himself be held like a son.
Inside, you were still nursing, still waiting.
Noah hovered near you like he didn’t know what to do with his own hands—too tall for a boy, too young for the weight in the room, eyes darting between the front door and your face as if he could measure the weather by the way you breathed.
“Hey,” he said quietly, voice cracked with concern. “Is… is my big brother okay?”
You tried to smile.
You did smile.
But your hands betrayed you—fingers trembling faintly in your lap, that subtle shake you hated because it always felt like the world could read it as weakness.
You tucked them together tighter, clasping, as if you could hold yourself still by force.
“I hope so,” you whispered, gentle and honest. “I really do.”
Daniel noticed immediately.
He didn’t stare—he wasn’t that kind of man. He simply stood, moved with quiet care, and returned a moment later with a soft blanket folded over his arm like an offering.
“Would you like this?” he asked. His voice had that warm, unassuming steadiness that felt like a hand on your back in a crowded room.
You nodded. “Yes… thank you.”
He draped it over your shoulders without touching you too much, mindful, respectful. The fabric settled like a small mercy, but it didn’t stop the flutter in your chest.
Emily watched you with those observant eyes—quiet, measuring, tender in her own cautious way.
Noah sank onto the edge of the chair across from you, knees bouncing.
Daniel sat down as well, a little forward, like he didn’t want to loom. “You said you don’t spend much time apart,” he said gently, not prying—just following what you’d offered. “Only when he’s working?” You nodded, the blanket gathered tighter around you.
“Yes.”
“And… it gives you anxiety being far from him?” Daniel asked.
Your throat tightened.
The truth sat behind your teeth like a bird trapped in a cage—wings beating, desperate to get out.
You looked at Kaori’s family—at Noah’s worried face, at Emily’s quiet curiosity, at Daniel’s steady patience—and you realized that if you didn’t speak it now, it would keep living inside you like a secret sickness.
So you swallowed.
And you told it.
Slowly.
Like laying glass down on a table.
“It’s not… normal,” you began softly. “The way my life has been.” Noah frowned, not judgmental—just trying to understand.
“I hurt someone once,” you said, voice delicate, as if speaking louder would make it too real. “My brother’s ex girlfriend.” Hiro’s name felt like a thread in your chest—tightening when you pulled it.
“I thought I was protecting him,” you admitted. “My mind… it told me she was a threat. She followed him home and wouldn’t stop. I panicked and—” Your lips trembled. “I did something horrible.”
Daniel’s expression didn’t shift into shock the way you expected. It softened instead, like he was seeing a person behind the confession.
Emily’s eyes widened. Noah’s mouth parted.
“I was punished,” you whispered. “Solitary. For three years.” Saying it aloud made your stomach hollow.
Three years. Three winters. Three summers. Three endless stretches of silence and concrete and your own thoughts echoing back at you until you couldn’t tell where you ended and the fear began.
“I got out when I was twenty-five,” you continued, voice trembling under the blanket. “I went to the ward after that. And that’s where I met Sukuna.”
Noah’s gaze flicked toward the door again.
“He… he understood me,” you said quietly. “Not like the doctors. Not like the staff. Not like my family. He treated me like a person. Like I wasn’t… broken.”
Your fingers tightened in the blanket.
“And then… something happened,” you went on, words turning heavier, darker. “A girl hurt me. My head—” you touched your temple unconsciously. “I was bleeding. Everything got dizzy and foggy. Sukuna… he snapped.”
You saw Noah swallow, Adam’s apple bobbing hard. “We escaped,” you said, voice small. “China first. A friend helped us. We tried to build something quiet there. And for a while… it was.”
Daniel breathed slowly, like he was holding space for your words.
“But my parents found me,” you whispered. “They… they didn’t like him. They were afraid of him. And maybe they thought they were doing the right thing, but—” Your eyes burned. “They kidnapped me.”
Emily’s hand flew to her mouth.
Noah’s face went pale. “They—what?” You nodded, tears threatening but not falling yet, stubbornly clinging to your lashes.
“They tricked me,” you said. “Took me to lunch. And I woke up with police around me. Nurses. And Shoko—she was a doctor from before. They were going to send me back to Japan.”
Your breath hitched.
“Back behind iron doors,” you whispered. “Back to the ward. And they would have taken my baby when he was born. That’s what my brother said. That’s what… everyone knew would happen.”
The room went still.
Even the house seemed to quiet, as if the walls themselves were listening.
Daniel’s brow furrowed with restrained anger, but his voice stayed gentle. “That’s… an enormous betrayal.” You nodded, eyes shining now. “I ran. Pregnant and running. I hid in an alley and called Sukuna. He found me.”
You pressed your palm lightly to your belly, as if grounding yourself in something real and present.
“And now…” you whispered. “Now I’m here. In America. And sometimes when he’s out of my sight, my body remembers what it felt like to be taken. To be trapped. To be… moved like I didn’t belong to myself.”
Your voice broke on that last part.
Daniel didn’t interrupt. He didn’t fix it. He just listened, the way good men do when there’s nothing to repair except dignity.
Noah’s eyes were wet. “So you’re scared he’ll… leave?” he asked, young and earnest.
You shook your head quickly, swallowing hard. “Not like that. I don’t think he would leave me.” You hesitated, and honesty forced its way out again. “But I’m scared of being… alone when something bad happens. I’m scared of people taking me again. I’m scared of my parents trying again. I’m scared of my mind.”
Emily whispered, “That’s… really scary.” You nodded. “It is.”
Daniel leaned forward slightly, forearms on his knees, voice low and careful. “Thank you for telling us,” he said. “That took courage.”
You stared at the blanket on your lap, blinking fast. “Sometimes I feel ridiculous,” you admitted. “Because I’m twenty-seven and I still—”
“No,” Daniel said gently, firm in a quiet way. “You’re not ridiculous. You’re surviving. There’s a difference.”
Noah wiped at his eyes with the heel of his hand, embarrassed by the tears but unable to stop them.
And you—still trembling, still wrapped in soft fabric—looked toward the front door again, heart tugging after Sukuna like a string tied to your ribs, hoping he would come back inside soon.
Not because you couldn’t stand on your own.
But because love—real love—had finally taught your body what safety felt like.
And your body didn’t want to forget it.
It crept up quietly—the way evenings always did when a house was warm and full. One minute there were plates and voices and the soft rustle of photo album pages, and the next the sky outside the windows had deepened into that blue-black velvet that made everything feel a little more private.
Kaori moved through her kitchen with practiced tenderness, packing leftovers the way mothers did when they loved you: too much, carefully portioned, wrapped like a promise.
“This is for you,” she told you, pressing a container into your hands first. “And this one… tell Sukuna to eat it. Tell him I won’t forgive him if he doesn’t.” You smiled, a small laugh escaping you. “I’ll make him.”
Kaori’s eyes softened in a way that made her look younger—like the woman in the old photos, before life sharpened her edges. She reached for Yuuji as you adjusted him against your chest, and even the way she held her arms out was careful, as if asking permission from the air.
You leaned him toward her, and Kaori kissed his forehead gently—barely a touch, more breath than pressure, like she was afraid to startle the miracle.
“My grandbaby,” she whispered, voice cracking on the word, and she blinked hard, smiling through it anyway.
Yuuji didn’t fuss. He just blinked slowly, milk-drunk and sleepy, pale pink wisps of hair catching the lamplight like a soft flame.
Kaori kissed him again—once more, like she was storing it in her body.
Then she hugged you.
Not tight enough to overwhelm, not loose enough to feel distant—just right. You felt her hands on your back, a little tremble, a quiet gratitude that lived in her ribs.
“Thank you,” she whispered in your ear.
You didn’t ask for what.
You understood anyway.
Noah hugged you next, awkwardly careful—fifteen years old and suddenly terrified of being too rough. He patted your shoulder like he’d seen adults do, then muttered, “Bye, Y/n,” like he didn’t know whether to be cool or sweet and got stuck between both.
Emily hugged you too—smaller arms, quick and shy, but sincere. She leaned in and peeked at Yuuji like he was a secret she wanted to memorize. “He’s really… tiny,” she murmured, amazed.
“Not for long,” you whispered back, smiling.
Daniel hugged you with that steady calm he carried like a coat. “You’re always welcome here,” he told you softly. “All of you.” You nodded, throat tightening. “Thank you.”
Sukuna stood a half-step behind you the whole time, close enough that you could feel his warmth at your back. He didn’t crowd, but he was there—present, vigilant in the quietest way.
Noah approached him last.
He looked up at Sukuna like he was staring at a mountain, then glanced down at his own hand as if it might betray him.
He stuck it out anyway.
Sukuna paused—just a fraction—then took it.
His grip wasn’t crushing, but it was firm, steady. Noah’s shoulders loosened like he’d been holding his breath for the last hour.
“Thanks,” Noah said quickly, then added, “For coming.” Sukuna gave a small nod. “Mm.”
Emily didn’t come close enough to touch him. She hovered by her mother’s side and waved instead, timid and polite.
Sukuna’s eyes flicked to her, and he gave a brief nod back—acknowledgment without force, gentleness without making a big thing of it.
Then Kaori stepped forward.
She didn’t hesitate this time.
She hugged him.
It wasn’t a long hug—not dramatic. But it was real. Her arms wrapped around his middle like she had done when he was small, and for a second Sukuna went still, like his body didn’t know where to put the feeling.
Kaori pulled back just enough to look up at him. “Call me,” she said quietly. “Or come by whenever you want. Even if it’s just for coffee.” Her smile trembled. “And bring my grandbaby.” Sukuna’s jaw tightened. His eyes stayed hard, but something softer moved underneath—like an old bruise being touched with care.
He nodded once. “Okay.” It was only one word, but it sounded like a bridge.
Kaori brushed her thumb over his forearm like she couldn’t help herself, then stepped back, wiping at the corner of her eye as if annoyed with her own tears.
Outside, the air was cool and clean.
You walked down the steps slowly, Yuuji held snug to your chest. Sukuna stayed on your left, one hand hovering near your back like a shield he didn’t have to use but refused to put away.
The porch light painted everything gold.
Daniel and the kids stood at the door, waving, their silhouettes framed by warmth. Kaori lifted her hand again—one last goodbye that looked like she was trying to memorize the shape of her son leaving.
Sukuna opened the car door for you first.
“Careful,” he murmured, voice low, and you slid in gently, adjusting Yuuji so his head stayed supported.
Sukuna shut your door like it mattered—softly, firmly—then walked around to the driver’s side. He got in, sat for a moment without turning the key.
The car was quiet.
You could hear your own breathing.
You could hear Yuuji’s tiny sleepy noises.
Sukuna stared forward, hands on the wheel, knuckles pale for a second before he forced them to relax.
Then he turned his head and looked at you.
Not at the baby first.
At you.
His gaze softened in that rare way it did when he stopped trying to be made of stone. “I love you,” he said, simple and rough, like the words still scraped his throat on the way out.
Your heart pulled tight in your chest. “I love you too,” you whispered.
His eyes flicked down briefly to Yuuji, then back to you, and something vulnerable flashed there—so quick you could’ve missed it if you weren’t already fluent in him.
“Stay on my side,” he said quietly.
Not as a command meant to trap you.
As a plea meant to keep him from falling apart. “Always,” you answered without hesitating, your voice steady even as your eyes stung. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” Sukuna let out a breath like he’d been holding it all night. He reached across the center console and found your hand, squeezing once—hard enough to be real, gentle enough to be safe.
Then he started the car, and the house grew smaller behind you, porch light fading into the dark like a candle being carried away from a room that was finally, finally warm.
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.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
❝You had stumbled into the forest half-dead, running from a husband who wore a badge and your bruises like trophies. When you collapsed past the tree line, you fell onto the land of Sukuna Itadori—a reclusive lumberjack with scarred hands and a silence that felt like a storm waiting to break.
Taking you in should have been temporary, but your presence turned his quiet world into something violent and fragile. As he hid you from the law that protected your abuser, protection twisted into obsession, and love became a dangerous vow. In the end, the story was never just about escape—it was about what Sukuna was willing to destroy, bury, and become to make sure the man who broke you never touched you again.❞
cw ; abuse. smut. trauma. murder
main masterlist
chapter one. the house in the trees
chaoter two. the sound of boots
chapter three. roots returning
chapter four. the sound of names
chapter five. the weight of truths & lies
chapter six. the things that keep growing
chapter seven. a seat at the table
chapter eight. new walls, old roots
chapter nine. the shape of small miracles
chapter ten. honey on the tongue
bonus chapter one. sunflower hurricane
bonus chapter two. splinters in the honey
It’s official… tumblr has failed the queer community. This is the ONLY piece they have listed like this, mind you it’s my ONLY trans piece. So the fact that this one was taken away is absolutely disgusting. If you want to keep up with the story, here is the link for the story on my AO3! I am also uploading my other pieces onto AO3 as well. If you look at my Masterlist, you will see what stories are on AO3🩷
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Bro why can't I view your work anymore 😭 it keeps telling me it's a "nature content so we hid it" I wanna read them again! (The links doesn't work anymore)
I am also on AO3 and working on uploading my stuff. Which one are you trying to re-read??
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.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
❝When a brilliant but emotionally guarded psychiatrist takes on Ryomen Sukuna—a volatile, obsessive man with a violent past—as her court-mandated patient, neither anticipates the dangerous intimacy that will unfold. What begins as a clinical relationship spirals into an all-consuming entanglement of lust, trust, and possession. As the lines blur between doctor and lover, savior and sinner, she must confront the scars of her own past while navigating the overwhelming devotion of a man who’s never known softness—until her.
Love was never part of the treatment plan. But now, she might be the only cure he's ever wanted.❞
cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety. death. graphic scenes. murder. tw. psychological.
masterlist
chapters
chapter one || Who You Belong To
chapter two || A Chance Encounter — Or So It Seems
chapter three || The Book Left Behind
chapter four || Not Supposed to Happen
chapter five || The Garden, & The Ghost that Bloom There
chapter six || What I Need to Do
chapter seven || I'll Kill Myself First
chapter eight || The Gate that Wasn't Locked
chapter nine || Loud Voices
side stories
chapter one || First Kiss
chapter two || No One Pays Attention To Me
chapter three || Two Kisses
chapter four || Just Us
chapter five || Bloodline & Boundaries
chapter six || The Things We Don't Say
chapter seven || What The Internet Said
chapter eight || The Journal
chapter nine || The Sound of Breaking Things
chapter ten || The Honest Truth
what absolutely pisses me off is when people say i use ai!!!!!!!! my stuff is greatly punctuated and no mispelling because one... im an author who has someone WHO READS MY SHIT. and two... I USE GRAMMARLY!!! Grammarly is FOR writers and all it does is fix your punctuation and misspelling! as you can see in my attachment, i have a shit ton of errors and grammarly literally just fixes it. it doesnt write my shit, these are MY WORDS, MY IDEAS!!!!!
if i had some shit to hide, i would not be posting this. people look at writers who work hard on their shit, and try to bring them down and make their work less than the hard work we put into it and quite frankly i dont fucking appreciate it
She was twenty, serving whiskey at a company dinner. He was forty-three, divorced, guarded, and far too old to be looking at her the way he did. One reckless night was supposed to be the end of it. Instead, it became the beginning of an unusual romance neither of them knew how to explain—and neither of them was willing to walk away from.
By twenty-four, you had learned that endings rarely felt like endings while you were living through them.
Your final semester had not arrived with a grand sense of closure. It arrived with deadlines, revisions, sleepless nights, and a calendar so full that you stopped looking at entire weeks and began surviving one square at a time.
There were papers to finish.
Presentations to defend.
Meetings with advisors who used the phrase final revisions as though the word final had not already appeared six times.
Sukuna watched you endure all of it from the other side of the dining table.
At forty-seven, he had become even more settled into himself. The faint gray at his temples had grown slightly more visible, though he denied it whenever you mentioned it. His career had continued climbing. He had more authority, fewer people willing to challenge him, and somehow even less patience for badly organized meetings.
He also remained as attached to you as ever.
The closer graduation came, the worse he became.
“You’re hovering,” you told him one night while editing your final project.
“I’m standing.”
“Behind my chair.”
“It’s my house.”
“You’ve been reading the same sentence over my shoulder for three minutes.”
“It’s poorly written.” You turned your head. “It’s my sentence.”
“I know.”
“You said my paper was good.”
“It is.”
“Then why are you insulting it?”
“Because you’ve rewritten it four times and made it worse.”
You stared at him.
Sukuna reached around you, deleted one phrase, and replaced it with something annoyingly better.
You looked at the screen.
Then at him.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No, I don’t.”
He kissed the top of your head and returned to his office.
The degree had taken six years in total.
Four for your bachelor’s.
Two for your master’s.
Six years of essays, projects, internships, research, and plans pinned above desks. Six years of tuition payments, coffee-fueled mornings, and Sukuna checking your academic calendar more faithfully than you did.
Your father had stopped paying when you were twenty-one.
Sukuna had taken over without hesitation.
He never mentioned the total.
Never made you feel indebted.
Whenever you asked how much he had spent, he told you it did not matter. When you insisted that it mattered to you, he would look over his glasses and say, “Then graduate.”
So you did.
Graduation morning began before sunrise.
You woke to the sound of the shower running and the pale blue light of morning pressing against the bedroom curtains.
For several seconds, you lay still beneath the sheets.
Then you remembered.
Your eyes opened fully.
You sat up so quickly that your curls fell into your face.
Today.
The bathroom door opened a few minutes later.
Sukuna stepped out with a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair still damp.
He stopped when he saw you sitting upright.
“You look panicked.”
“I’m graduating.”
“I know.”
“Today.”
“Yes.”
“With a master’s degree.”
“I’ve seen the emails.”
You threw a pillow at him.
He caught it one-handed.
“That reaction is emotionally insufficient.” Sukuna tossed the pillow back onto the bed.
“You haven’t brushed your teeth.” You gasped. “I want support, not criticism.”
“You’ll get support after you shower.” You narrowed your eyes. He walked toward the dresser, entirely unbothered.
By the time you were dressed, the bedroom had become a disaster.
Makeup brushes covered the vanity.
Shoes sat in three separate places.
Your graduation gown hung from the closet door while you debated whether the dress underneath looked too formal, not formal enough, or somehow both.
Sukuna dressed with infuriating efficiency.
Black button-up.
Black slacks.
Polished black shoes.
A Rolex watch fastened around his wrist with the casual ease of someone who forgot most people noticed things like that.
The shirt fit him perfectly, stretching across his shoulders before narrowing at his waist. He rolled the sleeves once, then changed his mind and buttoned the cuffs.
You watched from the vanity mirror.
Sukuna caught you.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“You look good.”
“I know.”
You smiled.
“Very humble.”
He adjusted the watch.
“You’re taking too long.”
“I’m doing my makeup.”
“You’ve been doing your makeup for an hour.”
“It has been twenty minutes.”
“It feels like an hour.”
“You say that every time.”
“Because it’s always true.”
You turned back toward the mirror and carefully applied gloss.
Your dress was soft cream, fitted through the waist and flowing to your knees. It was simple enough to sit beneath the gown without bunching but elegant enough for pictures later. Your curls fell loose down your back, carefully shaped and glossy. You wore small gold hoops, a delicate necklace, and the ring Sukuna had given you two birthdays earlier.
When you finally stood, Sukuna went quiet.
You smoothed your hands over the dress.
“What?”
He looked you over slowly.
Then stepped closer.
“You look beautiful.”
Your smile softened.
“Thank you.”
His hand moved to your waist.
“Don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying.”
“You’re thinking about it.”
“I am not.” His thumb brushed lightly beneath your eye before any tears could form. “You’ll ruin the makeup you took three years to finish.” You laughed.
“Twenty minutes.”
“Same thing.”
He leaned down and kissed your forehead, careful not to smudge your lips.
“Ready?”
You looked toward the gown.
Then back at him.
“Yes.”
Sukuna drove.
Of course he did.
He pulled the black car from the garage just after eight, its polished exterior reflecting the morning sun. The vehicle was expensive enough that strangers often looked twice, though Sukuna acted like it was a practical purchase and not a machine that cost more than most people’s homes.
You settled into the passenger seat with your gown draped carefully over your lap.
Sukuna glanced toward you.
“Seat belt.”
“I know.”
“You’re not wearing it.”
“I was arranging the gown.”
“Seat belt first.”
You clicked it into place.
“Happy?”
“Yes.”
“You’re bossy.”
“Yes.”
He rested one hand on the steering wheel.
The Rolex caught the light as he backed out of the driveway.
You watched him for a moment.
Black shirt.
Dark slacks.
Sharp jaw.
Faint gray at his temples.
Completely composed.
“You look like you’re attending a corporate funeral.”
He glanced toward you.
“I’m dressed normally.”
“You’re dressed like you’re about to fire someone.”
“I might.”
“At my graduation?”
“If someone gets in the way of the pictures.”
You laughed and leaned back against the seat.
The drive took forty minutes.
As the campus came into view, your nerves returned.
Families crowded the sidewalks carrying flowers, balloons, and signs. Graduates moved toward the stadium in dark gowns, some laughing, some crying, some already looking overwhelmed.
Sukuna parked near the reserved lot.
You opened the door and stepped out.
Before you could reach for your gown, Sukuna had already taken it from the back seat.
“I can carry it.”
“I know.”
“You’re holding my bag too.”
“I know.”
“You’re making me look incapable.”
“You’re wearing heels.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t hold fabric.”
He looked down at the shoes.
“They’re impractical.”
“They’re pretty.”
“That’s not a defense.”
You smiled and slipped your arm through his.
The campus buzzed around you.
For once, you did not care who looked.
Two years earlier, you had still felt the sting of strangers judging the age difference. You had noticed every double take, every whisper, every expression that lingered too long.
Now, you simply held Sukuna’s arm.
He belonged beside you.
That was enough.
Your parents were waiting near the stadium entrance.
Your mother saw you first.
She waved so energetically that several people turned.
“There she is!”
You laughed and hurried toward them.
Your mother wrapped you in a hug.
“Oh, look at you.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“You’re beautiful.”
She pulled back and adjusted one curl near your shoulder.
Your father stood beside her holding a bouquet wrapped in blue paper.
His expression was reserved, but the pride in his face was impossible to miss.
“Congratulations,” he said.
You smiled.
“Thank you.”
He handed you the flowers.
Then his eyes moved toward Sukuna.
Sukuna stood a few steps behind you holding the gown and your purse.
Your father looked at the Rolex.
Then the car in the distance.
Then the black shirt.
His mouth tightened.
Sukuna nodded once.
“Morning.”
Your father grunted.
It was progress.
Your friends arrived shortly afterward.
There were three of them.
Nadia, who had survived nearly every group project with you and possessed the emotional stability of someone living permanently on iced coffee.
Marisol, loud, affectionate, and incapable of taking a normal picture.
And Hannah, the quietest of the three, who appeared sweet until someone insulted her writing and then became terrifying.
They spotted you across the walkway and began shouting.
“You did it!” Nadia reached you first and hugged you hard. Marisol followed, nearly crushing the bouquet. Hannah wrapped both arms around you and whispered, “I’m so proud of you.”
Your throat tightened.
“Thank you.”
Then Marisol looked past you.
Her eyes widened.
Sukuna had removed his sunglasses and was folding them into the front of his shirt.
“Oh,” she said.
Nadia followed her gaze.
Then Hannah.
The three of them became very quiet.
You looked between them.
“What?”
Marisol leaned close to you.
“That is Sukuna?”
You frowned.
“You’ve seen pictures.”
“Pictures did not explain this.”
Nadia stared openly.
“He looks like he owns the university.”
“He thinks he does,” you said.
Hannah adjusted her glasses.
“The watch is a Rolex.”
You looked toward Sukuna.
“I know.”
Marisol grabbed your arm.
“He’s hot.”
Your face warmed.
“Please lower your voice.”
“He’s rich and hot.”
Nadia nodded slowly.
“And older.”
“You all knew he was older.”
“Knowing and seeing are different things,” Marisol said.
Sukuna approached.
The conversation stopped immediately.
He handed you the gown.
“Where do you need to go?”
You pointed toward the graduate entrance.
“In ten minutes.”
His gaze moved toward your friends.
You introduced them.
“Nadia, Marisol, Hannah. This is Sukuna.”
Marisol smiled too brightly.
“We’ve heard so much about you.”
Sukuna looked at you.
“What did you tell them?”
“Nothing bad.”
“That’s suspicious.”
Nadia laughed.
Hannah extended her hand.
“Thank you for helping her survive graduate school.”
Sukuna shook it.
“She did the work.”
The answer surprised you.
Hannah smiled.
“Yes, but she said you kept her alive during finals.”
“She forgets to eat.”
“I do not.”
Everyone looked at you.
You sighed.
“Sometimes.”
The ceremony began soon after.
You separated from the group and joined the line of graduates filing into the stadium.
Sukuna took his seat beside your parents.
Your friends sat one row behind them.
The arrangement lasted less than five minutes before Marisol leaned forward and began asking Sukuna questions.
Your father watched with visible irritation.
“So you’re an architect?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“What kind of buildings?”
“Mostly medical and commercial.”
“That sounds expensive.”
Sukuna looked at her.
“The buildings?”
“All of it.”
Nadia covered her face.
Hannah whispered, “Please stop.”
Sukuna’s mouth twitched slightly.
Your father noticed.
He disliked this immediately.
When the ceremony started, everyone quieted.
Sukuna sat with one ankle resting over the opposite knee, hands folded loosely in his lap. He looked composed, nearly indifferent.
But every time the line of graduates moved, his gaze searched for you.
He found you three rows from the stage.
You caught his eye.
Sukuna lifted his chin once.
The gesture steadied you.
The speeches seemed endless.
You barely heard them.
Your mother cried during the opening remarks.
Your father passed her a tissue while pretending not to notice.
Marisol took too many pictures of the stage.
Nadia whispered that half of them were blurry.
Sukuna checked the program three times to confirm how many departments remained before yours.
Then your row stood.
Your heart began pounding.
One by one, the graduates crossed the stage.
Names echoed through the stadium.
Applause rose and faded.
Then your name was called.
You stepped forward.
The lights felt brighter than expected.
You accepted the diploma cover and shook the dean’s hand.
From the audience, your mother cheered.
Your friends shouted loudly enough that several nearby families laughed.
Your father clapped with both hands raised.
And Sukuna stood.
He did not shout.
He did not need to.
He simply stood and looked at you with an expression so full of pride that your steps nearly faltered.
For years, he had watched you work.
He had paid the bills that might have stopped you.
He had made dinner when you forgot.
He had read drafts he claimed not to understand.
He had told you to graduate.
You smiled at him from the stage.
Sukuna smirked.
Then sat back down.
After the ceremony, the campus erupted into noise again.
Graduates spilled onto the lawn. Families gathered beneath banners and trees. Bouquets changed hands. Cameras flashed in every direction.
You found your parents first.
Your mother hugged you again and cried into your curls.
“My baby has a master’s degree.”
“Mom.”
“I’m allowed to cry.” Your father pulled you into a brief, awkward hug. “You did well.” The simplicity of it made your chest ache.
“Thank you.”
Then your friends arrived.
Marisol screamed.
Nadia opened a bottle of sparkling cider.
Hannah handed you a card signed by all three of them.
Sukuna approached last.
Not because he was less eager.
Because he let everyone else reach you first.
He walked across the lawn with one hand in his pocket, sunlight catching the silver face of his watch. His black shirt remained perfectly pressed despite the heat. The expression on his face was calm, but his eyes were fixed entirely on you.
Your friends noticed.
Marisol grabbed Nadia’s wrist.
“Oh my God.”
“What?” you asked.
“The way he’s looking at you.”
Sukuna stopped in front of you.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then he reached up and adjusted the edge of your graduation hood where it had twisted near your shoulder.
“Good job,” he said.
Your mouth fell open.
“That’s it?”
His eyes moved over your face.
Then he smiled.
Not broadly.
A slow, private smirk that belonged only to you.
“Very good job.”
He leaned down and kissed you.
Right there.
In front of your parents.
Your friends.
Half the graduating class.
His hand settled at your waist as your fingers caught lightly in the front of his shirt.
When he pulled back, your lips were warm and your face was burning.
Then, as if he had not already caused enough trouble, Sukuna gave your backside a light, familiar tap.
You gasped.
“Sukuna.”
Your father made a choking sound.
Your mother covered her mouth to hide a laugh.
Marisol’s eyes nearly fell out of her head.
Nadia whispered, “That was so hot.”
Hannah nodded solemnly.
“Objectively.”
Your father looked horrified.
“Was that necessary?”
Sukuna looked at him.
“Yes.”
“It was not.”
“She graduated.”
“That does not explain anything.”
“It explains enough.”
You covered your face.
Your friends dissolved into laughter.
Marisol leaned toward you.
“I cannot believe you kept him hidden.”
“I did not hide him.”
“You absolutely did.”
Nadia glanced toward Sukuna’s watch.
“Older, rich, attractive, and obsessed with you.”
Hannah nodded.
“I understand the appeal.”
Your father looked toward them.
“You’re encouraging this?”
Marisol smiled.
“Sir, respectfully, yes.”
Your father nearly gagged.
Your mother laughed outright this time.
Sukuna slipped one arm around your waist and pulled you against his side.
Your face remained warm.
“You embarrassed me.”
“You liked it.”
“I did not.”
“You’re smiling.”
You tried to stop.
You could not.
The group moved toward the trees for pictures.
First, you stood with your parents.
Then with your friends.
Then with all of them together.
Your father insisted Sukuna stand on the opposite side of the group.
Sukuna ignored him and stood beside you.
Marisol took the phone from your mother.
“Closer.”
Sukuna’s arm tightened around you.
“Closer,” she repeated.
“There is no closer,” your father muttered.
Sukuna looked down at you.
You smiled up at him.
Marisol took the picture.
Then another.
In the second, Sukuna kissed your temple.
Nadia sighed dramatically.
“I need an older rich man.”
Hannah looked at her.
“You need to finish your résumé.”
“Both can happen.”
Your father shook his head.
“This generation is doomed.”
You laughed.
After the pictures, Sukuna handed you a small box.
You looked at it.
“What is this?”
“A graduation present.”
“You already paid for the degree.”
“That wasn’t a gift.”
“Sukuna.”
“Open it.”
Inside was a delicate gold bracelet set with a tiny dark stone.
Your eyes softened.
“It’s beautiful.”
“I know.”
You gave him a look.
He held out his hand.
You passed him the bracelet, and he fastened it around your wrist.
The gesture was careful.
Unhurried.
Your friends watched silently.
Even your father stopped complaining.
Sukuna turned your wrist once, checking the clasp.
“Fits.”
“You measured one of my bracelets?”
“No.”
“You guessed?”
“No.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“You stole one.”
“Borrowed.”
“When?”
“You leave things everywhere.”
You laughed and leaned into him.
“Thank you.”
His hand moved to the back of your neck.
“You earned it.”
That answer meant more than the jewelry.
Your mother took another picture without warning.
This one caught you looking at Sukuna while he looked down at the bracelet.
Neither of you noticed the camera.
Later, at dinner, your friends continued asking questions.
How expensive was the car?
Did he always dress like that?
Did he really work from home?
Was he always this intense?
You answered most of them.
Sukuna ignored the rest.
Your father sat across from him, visibly enduring every moment.
At one point, Nadia asked how the two of you met.
You nearly choked on your drink.
Sukuna took a sip of whiskey.
“At a company dinner.”
“She was waitressing,” Marisol said. “That part is romantic.”
Your father looked between you.
“How did dinner become dating?”
You stared at the menu.
Sukuna answered calmly.
“It took time.”
Technically true.
Your mother looked suspicious.
Hannah hid a smile behind her glass.
Your father pointed at Sukuna.
“I still think you were too old to be looking at her.”
Sukuna leaned back in his chair.
“I was.”
Everyone went quiet.
You looked at him.
He continued.
“I knew the age difference mattered. I also knew she was an adult and capable of deciding what she wanted.”
Your father’s jaw shifted.
“And now?”
“Now she has two degrees, a career ahead of her, and better judgment than most people twice her age.”
Your chest tightened.
Sukuna glanced at you.
“Usually.”
You smiled.
Your father looked down at the table.
He did not agree.
But he did not argue either.
After dinner, your friends left together.
Marisol hugged you and whispered, “I am still not over the watch.” Nadia added, “Or the car.” Hannah smiled. “Or the way he looks at you.” You laughed and hugged them goodbye.
Your parents left soon after.
Your father shook Sukuna’s hand before going.
The movement was stiff.
Reluctant.
But it happened.
“Take care of her,” he said.
Sukuna looked at you.
Then back at him.
“I do.”
Your father nodded.
Your mother hugged you one last time and promised to send every picture.
When everyone was gone, the parking lot felt suddenly quiet.
You stood beside the car holding your flowers and diploma folder.
Sukuna opened the passenger door.
You did not get in.
He looked at you.
“What?”
“You really only said good job.”
His mouth curved.
“You wanted a speech?”
“A little one.”
Sukuna closed the door again.
Then he stepped closer.
His hands settled at your waist.
“You worked for six years.”
You smiled softly.
“I know.”
“You kept going when your father pulled the money.”
Your throat tightened.
“You got into the master’s program.”
His thumb moved over your side.
“You finished every deadline. Every paper. Every presentation.”
Your eyes began to burn.
Sukuna sighed.
“Don’t.”
“I’m not crying.”
“You are.”
“You’re giving me the speech now.”
“You complained.”
You laughed.
He looked at you for a long moment.
“I’m proud of you.”
The words were quiet.
Simple.
Devastating.
You set the flowers on the roof of the car and wrapped your arms around him.
Sukuna held you immediately.
His chin rested against the top of your curls.
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” you whispered.
“Yes, you could.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You could have.”
His arms tightened.
“It just would’ve been harder.”
You smiled against his chest.
“You paid for everything.”
“I paid bills.”
“You made sure I ate.”
“You forget.”
“You listened to every presentation.”
“You made me.”
“You read my papers.”
“Some were too long.”
You pulled back.
“Sukuna.”
His expression softened.
“You did the work.”
You looked up at him.
He touched the bracelet on your wrist.
“I just made sure no one stopped you.”
Your throat tightened again.
You kissed him.
Slowly.
There in the quiet parking lot, beside the expensive black car, wearing your graduation gown and the bracelet he had chosen.
When you pulled away, Sukuna smirked.
“Ready to go home, graduate?”
You smiled.
“Yes.”
He opened the passenger door again.
You climbed inside.
As he walked around the front of the car, sunlight flashed across the Rolex on his wrist.
You watched him settle into the driver’s seat.
Forty-seven.
Grumpy.
Wealthy.
Impossible.
And looking at you like every year, every bill, every late night, and every argument had been worth it.
Sukuna started the engine.
Then glanced toward you.
“What?”
“You’re staring.”
“I like looking at you.”
His mouth curved.
“Good.”
He reached across the console and rested his hand on your thigh.
it’s so disheartening to see more of my fav fanfics writers go to ao3 because tumblr keeps removing lgbtq+ works. this app is supposed to be inclusive to all, but they are just down right homophobic. will you stop posting all together in the blog? 💗💗
I will still post on here, but I will also post on ao3 so that ALL my works will still be together and not removed bc it’s LGBTQ! I will make sure to post on here when I post a LGBTQ story in AO3! Or you can also follow me on ao3!
OMG SHAME ON TUMBLR!!!! 🤬 Will you still be using this blog to talk to us or are you going to go?
Honestly I literally made tumblr for you ngl!!! lol
I will still be using tumblr since a lot of my readers don’t use AO3! But I will be posting on AO3 as well, especially for my LGBTQ pieces, those will be AO3 uploads only!
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.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
I will be transferring all of my works to AO3 since tumblr is not LGBTQ friendly. I have most of my one shots posted. Please bear with me for it may take a couple of weeks to get everything moved over!
I’m so upset 💔 I’ve been waiting for the next chapter of softer than a secret then tumblr gon turn around and hide it from public view
Hi Guys!!! for Softer Than a Secret I will be posting on A03, and am working on moving all of my works over to A03. I have already posted chapter one of Softer Than a Secret, I am going to post up til chapter 4. Please give me like 30 min!!!
Also shame on you @Tumblr, the way the constant homophobia is, is absolutely disgusting
