in which gojo accidentally finds out ryomen sukuna had a wife in a million year old book hahah,hi everyone,english isnt my first language,but i love the idea of sukuna and his wife actually being recorded and not only him as the king of curses! enjoy:)
The archives beneath Jujutsu High had never been particularly exciting.
Most of what survived from the Heian era consisted of brittle scrolls, incomplete temple records, and the sort of historical documents clearly written by people who considered punctuation an unnecessary luxury. Dust lingered in every forgotten corner, clinging to shelves so old they seemed to sag beneath centuries of accumulated history. It smelled faintly of old paper, ink, and cedar.
Gojo Satoru had been there for nearly an hour.
A local lord complaining about border disputes to another local lord who was, apparently, equally interested in complaining.
"...If I have to read one more sentence about agricultural taxation," Gojo muttered, lazily resting his chin against his hand, "I'm voting we let Sukuna win."
The archives, predictably, lacked a sense of humor.
He sighed dramatically before reaching for another volume from the stack Yaga had insisted might contain "useful historical context."
Ever since Itadori Yuji had swallowed Sukuna's finger, Jujutsu High had begun collecting every surviving document that mentioned the King of Curses. Museums reluctantly opened their vaults, private collectors suddenly found themselves entertaining visits from sorcerers, and forgotten temple archives were being translated for the first time in generations. Somewhere among thousands of years of records, there had to be something. A forgotten ritual. An overlooked weakness. A detail everyone else had dismissed.
Gojo wasn't particularly optimistic.
If history had somehow preserved a diary that read Dear Journal, today I discovered my one fatal weakness is being stabbed specifically through the left side of my chest, he'd happily spend the afternoon reading ancient calligraphy.
Unfortunately, history appeared determined to be profoundly unhelpful.
He reached for another book.
Unlike the others, this one wasn't a military record or a religious manuscript. Its leather cover had faded almost to gray, softened by centuries of careful handling, while delicate illustrations peeked from between yellowed pages. There was no clan insignia stamped into the binding, no official seal declaring it royal property.
Instead, the first page bore only a careful introduction written in elegant brushstrokes.
A record of remarkable observations gathered throughout the Eastern Dominion during my residence within the palace of Ryomen Sukuna.
This looked considerably more promising.
The anonymous author wasn't a historian, nor a monk, nor a military advisor. Judging by the first several pages, they had simply spent years documenting unusual things worthy of preservation. Ancient weapons. Ceremonial armor. Imported artifacts whose craftsmanship had no equal. Rare medicinal herbs cultivated within the palace gardens. Strange animals presented as tribute from distant kingdoms. Cursed objects too dangerous to be handled without careful supervision.
It wasn't a chronicle of Sukuna himself.
It was a catalogue of everything the painter had considered remarkable enough to immortalize.
Gojo settled more comfortably against one of the archive shelves and turned the page.
The first illustration stretched across nearly two sheets of parchment.
Even rendered only in ink and faded mineral pigments, it was immense. Layer upon layer of rooftops climbed into the surrounding mountains, connected by covered corridors, open courtyards, hanging gardens, and terraces that overlooked forests stretching far beyond the horizon. Tiny handwritten annotations surrounded the painting, noting architectural techniques, imported timber, the placement of ceremonial halls, and the irrigation system responsible for feeding the sprawling medicinal gardens.
"...Rich bastard," Gojo murmured.
Rows upon rows of unfamiliar herbs spread beneath carefully constructed trellises, each labeled meticulously by the painter. Several paragraphs described their uses in treating fever, poisoned wounds, and cursed-energy exhaustion. It was the sort of obsessive documentation only someone completely fascinated by their subject would bother recording.
Then his eyes caught something near the corner of the illustration.
A woman knelt between the rows of herbs, entirely unaware she had become part of the painting. She held several freshly cut stems in one hand while examining another beneath the afternoon light, her attention fixed solely on the plants before her. There was nothing ceremonial about the moment. She wasn't posing. If anything, she looked as though the painter had simply happened to capture her while documenting the garden itself.
Not in the exaggerated, idealized way noblewomen often appeared in commissioned portraits, but with the effortless sort of beauty that felt almost accidental. The painter had somehow preserved the softness of an expression never intended to be remembered, the faint smile of someone completely absorbed in whatever occupied her thoughts.
There was no caption naming her.
The accompanying notes continued discussing medicinal herbs as though she weren't there at all.
Gojo frowned for only a second before turning the page.
Whatever she was, she clearly wasn't what the painter had been trying to preserve.
The next several pages were exactly what Gojo had expected.
Ceremonial naginata gifted by a northern clan. Bronze incense burners cast in the likeness of dragons. Imported lacquerware. Silk dyed with pigments so expensive the accompanying notes spent nearly half a page explaining their origin. Whoever had ruled this place had clearly never been told the meaning of moderation.
"...Yeah, yeah," Gojo muttered as he turned another page. "Very rich. Very terrifying."
The painter certainly thought so.
Every object had been rendered with painstaking care, accompanied by meticulous observations written in an elegant, restrained hand. There was no embellishment, no mythology, no exaggerated admiration—only patient documentation by someone determined to preserve what they had seen exactly as it was.
Gojo almost missed her the second time.
The painting itself depicted one of the palace's inner courtyards. Stone pathways wound between shallow streams that carried water toward the medicinal gardens, every bridge and carved pillar labeled neatly along the margins. Near the edge of the page, almost hidden beneath the branches of a flowering tree, the same woman from the herb garden crossed the courtyard with a woven basket resting comfortably against her hip.
The same gentle expression.
He paused only long enough to convince himself it was a coincidence before turning another page.
The palace infirmary occupied nearly two full illustrations. Shelves climbed from floor to ceiling beneath carefully painted bundles of drying herbs, rows of ceramic jars, handwritten remedies, and instruments whose purpose Gojo couldn't even begin to guess. The accompanying notes remained as methodical as ever.
The palace infirmary contained an unusually extensive collection of dried herbs, prepared tinctures, and medicinal texts.
Several labels were amended during my stay by the lady of the inner residence, whose familiarity with the apothecary exceeded my own understanding.
She received servants and laborers seeking remedies with notable patience, regardless of rank. Such interruptions appeared to occasion no objection from His Majesty.
"...She was treating servants?"
The sentence lingered with him longer than he expected.
Not because someone within the palace knew medicine—that wasn't unusual.
Because whoever this woman was, she seemed to move through the palace with remarkable freedom. Servants sought her out. Physicians accepted her corrections. And apparently, Ryomen Sukuna himself had never objected.
Without realizing it, he stopped looking at the artifacts first.
Instead, his eyes searched for her.
She appeared beside an aviary housing brilliantly colored birds brought from distant kingdoms, one perched comfortably along the wooden railing as she watched it with quiet fascination. Another painting captured a covered corridor after heavy snowfall, the architecture clearly intended as the subject, yet there she was again in the distance, carrying fresh bundles of firewood alongside two laughing servants. A study of the palace gardens at the beginning of spring placed her kneeling beside newly planted herbs, sleeves rolled neatly above her wrists as she worked with soil-stained hands while gardeners carried tools around her as though the scene were entirely ordinary.
She never acknowledged the painter.
More curiously, the painter never seemed particularly interested in her either.
She simply... happened to be there.
Gojo flipped back several pages.
Gojo turned the page with considerably more enthusiasm than he had intended to admit.
Another illustration unfolded across the parchment, this one depicting one of the palace's inner courtyards surrounding a wide koi pond. The painter had devoted remarkable attention to the water itself, carefully reproducing each reflection of the surrounding architecture and every ornamental stone lining its banks. Bright carp drifted lazily beneath lily pads while flowering trees arched overhead.
Near the edge of the painting, almost hidden beneath one of those trees, Sukuna stood with his arms folded while the same woman crouched beside the pond, one hand extended over the water.
Several koi had gathered around her.
One had practically climbed into her palm.
The accompanying note read in the same restrained hand.
The eastern pond houses carp of uncommon size imported from the southern provinces.
The fish proved unusually receptive to the lady's presence, gathering readily whenever she approached the water.
His Majesty was observed accompanying these visits with surprising regularity.
"...You followed them to the fish."
The painter had chosen to document the palace kitchens during preparations for one of the seasonal banquets. Servants hurried between enormous iron cauldrons while trays of elaborate dishes disappeared toward the dining halls. Every utensil had been painstakingly sketched and labeled with almost obsessive precision.
Near one corner stood the same woman.
She held a small porcelain cup toward Sukuna with unmistakable skepticism painted across her face.
He appeared... unimpressed.
The note beneath explained nothing and somehow everything.
Among the imported goods presented during my stay was a variety of mountain tea said to be favored by western nobles.
His Majesty expressed no opinion regarding its quality.
The lady declared it comparable in flavor to boiled bark.
"...She bullied the King of Curses into changing tea."
The next illustration depicted one of the open verandas overlooking the palace gardens.
Several palace cats had claimed the afternoon sun for themselves, sprawled shamelessly across polished cedar floors without the slightest concern for royal dignity. Most ignored everyone entirely.
One, however, had selected Sukuna.
The enormous white creature slept comfortably across his lap while he continued reading a scroll as though the additional weight had ceased to surprise him years ago.
A second cat had curled against the woman's side, entirely content to steal the sleeve of her kimono as a pillow.
The note beneath was concise.
Contrary to expectation, the palace cats appeared entirely unafraid of His Majesty.
A number demonstrated equal attachment to the lady.
Whether this reflects discernment or poor instinct remains uncertain.
"...Why are there so many cats?"
The palace had been decorated for one of its larger seasonal celebrations.
Lanterns stretched across every corridor. Musicians occupied the gardens. Nobles drifted between pavilions dressed in layers of embroidered silk, each household distinguished by elaborate colors and patterns. The painter had clearly intended to preserve the ceremonial garments worn throughout the festival, filling nearly the entire page with notes describing imported dyes, weaving techniques, and regional embroidery.
Only after several moments did Gojo notice them.
They weren't standing together.
She spoke with several noblewomen near one veranda while Sukuna stood some distance away among his retainers.
There was nothing unusual about that.
Until Gojo noticed their robes.
The exact same deep crimson woven with black thread that caught the evening light differently from every other garment in the painting.
His eyes drifted to the note beneath.
During the Mid-Autumn celebration, the household of His Majesty wore garments fashioned from the same southern silk recently presented by foreign envoys.
The weaving was said to have required nearly three years to complete.
No comparable textile was observed elsewhere within the palace.
He leaned back, rubbing one hand across his face.
"I don't know why that's bothering me more than literally everything else."
By now he'd completely abandoned any pretense of researching Sukuna.
He wasn't looking for cursed techniques anymore.
He wasn't looking for weaknesses.
Every time he turned another page, he found himself hoping—
That she'd be there again.
There couldn't have been many pages left.
Gojo realized that only because the parchment had begun to thin beneath his fingers. The paintings grew larger now, less concerned with cataloguing individual objects and more interested in preserving places before the passing seasons altered them once again.
It almost felt as though the anonymous painter had grown fond of the palace by the end of his stay.
Gojo couldn't really blame him.
The western library occupied nearly the entire illustration, shelves climbing toward an impossibly high ceiling while afternoon sunlight spilled through open lattice windows. Scrolls lay stacked across low tables beside brushes, loose sheets of parchment, and unfinished copies of medicinal texts waiting to be rebound.
He barely looked at any of it.
She sat near one of the windows with an open book resting across her lap, completely absorbed in whatever she was reading. Across the room, Sukuna appeared to be doing exactly the same.
Neither acknowledged the other.
The silence somehow looked... comfortable.
The note beneath the painting was characteristically restrained.
The palace library remained open throughout the daylight hours.
Conversation within was uncommon.
His Majesty and the lady frequently occupied the western alcove during the afternoon, often departing no sooner than the changing of the lamps.
Gojo stared for a moment.
He let out a quiet laugh.
"That's... unexpectedly adorable."
The next page depicted one of the palace's covered walkways after a summer rain. Water still clung to the tiled roofs, reflecting the evening light in scattered ribbons of gold. Servants hurried about drying wooden floors while gardeners collected broken branches left behind by the storm.
Near the center of the painting, the woman stood beneath the shelter of the corridor, one sleeve extended beyond the roofline to catch the falling rain.
Summer storms commonly delayed activity throughout the palace.
His Majesty appeared remarkably patient on such occasions.
Whether this disposition owed to the weather itself or to his company, I cannot confidently determine.
He turned another page before he could think about why that sentence had made him smile.
The final illustration unfolded slowly beneath his hands.
It stretched across both pages.
The western balcony overlooked nearly the entire valley beyond the palace, where mountains dissolved into evening haze beneath a sky painted in shades of amber and violet. Vines climbed lazily around carved cedar pillars while lanterns waited to be lit with the coming dusk. Every stone, every beam, every flowering branch had been reproduced with almost reverent precision.
Only after several seconds did Gojo notice them.
Not because they had been hidden.
Because they fit the scene too naturally.
She rested one hand against the wooden railing, looking out across the mountains with an easy smile that suggested she had been speaking moments before. Even trapped forever in ink, there was movement in her expression, as though the next breath would bring another story.
Close enough that the sleeves of their robes nearly touched.
His posture remained exactly as history remembered it—relaxed, imposing, completely certain of itself.
He wasn't looking at the mountains.
Like wherever the conversation had wandered was more interesting than the sunset behind it.
Gojo felt something in his chest quietly shift.
Their robes were different from those worn during the festival.
Yet the silk itself caught the fading sunlight exactly the same way, woven from the same impossibly fine thread that shimmered with identical depth beneath the evening sky.
A simple band of gold circled her left hand.
The same band rested upon Sukuna's.
For several seconds, Gojo simply stared.
Then, almost mechanically, his eyes dropped to the final note written beneath the painting.
His Majesty seldom remained available for portraiture beyond matters of state.
During my residence, I found him most frequently upon the western balcony in the company of the lady of the inner residence.
Though I first intended to preserve the architecture, the gardens, and the quality of the evening light, I confess these figures appeared so often within them that omitting either would have rendered the observations incomplete.
Perhaps future generations shall remember this palace for its sovereign.
I suspect those who truly visited it will remember that it was once lived in.
Silence settled over the archives.
Gojo looked back at the painting.
Then back to Sukuna again.
"...You've got to be kidding me."
He laughed softly to himself, shaking his head as he closed the book halfway.
"I came down here looking for dirt on the King of Curses..."
His thumb lingered between the pages.
"...and somehow I ended up reading a thousand-year-old married couple's photo album."
His eyes drifted back to the woman one last time.
He still didn't know her name.
The painter had never written it.
Yet by the end of the journal, she felt just as impossible to forget as the man history had immortalized.
Another glance at the final painting.
"I don't think anyone mentioned the wife."
Gojo closed the journal with far more care than he'd opened it.
He rested a hand against the worn leather cover for another moment before sliding it neatly back into its place among the shelves.
"So much for finding Sukuna's secret weakness."
Instead, he'd somehow spent the better part of an afternoon reading what amounted to centuries-old candid sketches of a palace... and wondering why history had neglected to mention the woman who seemed to inhabit every corner of it.
He still didn't know her name.
The painter had never written it.
His phone vibrated in his pocket.
Gojo answered with an exaggerated sigh.
"If you're calling to ask whether I've discovered the King of Curses' fatal weakness, I'm afraid the answer is no."
"I did, however, discover that historians are terrible at prioritizing information."
"...What are you talking about?"
Yaga's voice remained as even as ever.
Gojo glanced once more toward the shelf where he'd returned the journal.
He pushed himself off the floor with another dramatic sigh.
"Fine. What's so important?"
"We've hired another instructor."
That caught his attention.
"They'll be assisting with first-year practical training."
"Didn't know we were hiring."
"We weren't planning to."
"I want you to show them around the campus."
Gojo groaned loudly enough that Yaga almost certainly moved the phone away from his ear.
"You're making me do orientation?"
"You're the only instructor available."
"I hate being available."
Gojo slipped his hands into his pockets and headed toward the archive stairs, throwing one last glance over his shoulder at the shelf.
He took one last look at the balcony painting before closing it completely.
The woman smiled forever from faded mineral pigments, unaware that a thousand years later someone was trying very hard to figure out who she'd been.
"...Still think you would've made this book way more interesting than your husband."
With a quiet shake of his head, he disappeared up the staircase.
The archives fell silent once more.
The old journal remained exactly where he'd left it, tucked neatly among hundreds of forgotten records.
A/N: honestly the thought of him falling in love with this guys wife is hilarious lmao
