side story six || slip ups - Ryomen Sukuna x Hiromi Higuruma
Ryomen Sukuna x Hiromi Higuruma x F!reader
❝At just 25, you juggle raising two children in Japan while hiding the truth of their father—Ryomen Sukuna Itadori, the ruthless, married CEO of a media empire.
Bound to him by secrecy and control, your life begins to unravel when you take a job at a prestigious Tokyo law firm under Hiromi Higuruma, a sharp-tongued but unexpectedly kind defense lawyer.
As Hiromi notices the bruises you try to hide and offer protection, Sukuna’s possessive grip tightens, threatening to expose everything. Between a mother who urges you to reclaim your happiness, a boss who sees your worth, and a man who refuses to let you go, you’re caught in a dangerous triangle of love, power, and survival—forced to decide whether you’ll keep living in Sukuna’s shadow or finally step into your own light.❞
Six months had slipped by since that night when laughter blurred into tears and tears blurred into that first trembling kiss. Eight months since the divorce papers had been signed, stacked neat and final like the closing of a chapter you’d once thought would never end. One month since you and Sukuna, after circling each other for what felt like a lifetime, finally admitted—out loud, in the quiet of your bedroom, lips swollen from kissing—that you were together.
No one knew. Not the kids, not your mother who was now back in New York, not even Hiromi. Especially not Hiromi. You and Sukuna had mastered the art of pretending in front of the kids. He still came over on weekends like he had before, using the excuse that “your mom’s alone, and you brats don’t want her sitting in the dark watching dramas all weekend like some sad spinster.” Julian would roll his eyes, Clara would giggle, and Esme—sweet, unsuspecting Esme—would clap her little hands and say, “Yay! Suku’s staying!”
The routine was easy: Sukuna crashed in the spare room, played board games with the kids, took them for late-night ice cream runs, and grilled in the backyard like some sort of semi-domesticated caveman. But every night, once the house settled, you’d hear the familiar creak of the hallway floorboards, then your door easing open just enough for him to slip inside. Sometimes he’d sneak in shirtless, muttering about how hot his room was. Sometimes he’d flop dramatically onto your bed with a grumble about your “terrible pillows” until you smacked him with one. Sometimes he’d just crawl in quietly, curling behind you like he belonged there and one night, Julian saw.
It happened on a Saturday. You and Sukuna had been watching some movie downstairs with Clara and Esme while Julian sat at the dining table, glued to his Switch. By the time you got the girls tucked in, the house was heavy with silence. Sukuna kissed you once in the hallway, quick and stolen, before trudging off to the spare room. But at 2 a.m., like clockwork, your door cracked open, and there he was—tattooed shoulders filling the frame, smirk already tugging at his mouth.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he whispered. “You’re full of shit,” you whispered back, smiling. He grinned, slipping into bed beside you. His hand found your waist, his lips brushed your temple—and that was when the door creaked again.
Julian.
Thirteen, all arms and legs, standing there with his hair sticking up and his eyes narrowing in confusion. He blinked once. Twice. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel and closed the door.
You and Sukuna froze.
“…Shit,” Sukuna muttered. “Oh my god,” you hissed, burying your face in your hands. “We’re dead. I’m dead. He’s going to tell Clara, and then Esme, and then—” Sukuna, maddeningly calm, leaned back against the pillows with a smirk. “Relax. He won’t say anything.”
“How do you know?” you demanded. “Because he likes me more than Hiromi.” You smacked his chest so hard he let out a bark of laughter, which he muffled in your pillow. “You are the worst!”
The next morning at breakfast, Julian avoided your eyes. He shoveled cereal into his mouth with an intensity that suggested he was trying to solve world hunger with Frosted Flakes. Clara was rambling about a school project, Esme was humming to herself, and Sukuna—of course—sat across from you looking smug as hell, sipping his coffee like nothing had happened. You kicked him under the table. He didn’t even flinch, just raised a brow at you over the rim of his mug.
Julian finally glanced up, his gaze flicking between you and Sukuna. For a terrifying second, you thought he might blurt something out. Instead, he just sighed, muttered, “Whatever,” and went back to his cereal, Sukuna’s smirk widened. Later, when you caught Julian in the hallway, you tried to test the waters. “Hey, you okay?” He shrugged, not meeting your eyes. “Yeah. Just tired.”
“Julian…” You hesitated, lowering your voice. “You know if you ever… see anything weird, you can talk to me, right?” He finally looked at you, his green eyes—so much like yours—narrowed in suspicion. “I didn’t see anything.” Which, of course, meant he saw everything. You sighed, ruffling his pale pink curls the way you had since he was little. “You’re too smart for your own good.”
“Yeah,” he muttered. Then, quieter, “As long as you’re happy, Mom.” It was the closest he came to giving you permission, and that night, when Sukuna inevitably crept into your room again, you told him about it. He listened, then grinned, pulling you under his arm. “Knew he wouldn’t snitch. Kid’s got loyalty,” Sukuna said. “Just like his old man.” You groaned, smacking him with the pillow again, but your laughter was warm this time—tinged with relief, with the fragile joy of something messy and secret slowly beginning to root itself into the quiet corners of your life.
It was a soft, ordinary Sunday afternoon, the kind of day where the house was filled with the lazy hum of family life—Julian at the dining table scrolling on his phone, Esme sprawled on the living room rug with crayons and a coloring book, Clara upstairs rummaging for her earphones before lunch. Sukuna had insisted on helping with laundry after you scolded him for lounging around while you did chores. “You’re acting domestic,” you teased earlier, shoving a basket into his hands. “Don’t get used to it,” he muttered, following you down the hall. “I don’t fold socks.”
Now, with the clothes finally put away, you two lingered in the hallway longer than you should have. You leaned against the wall, tired but content, when Sukuna stepped close—too close, as always—his towering frame shadowing yours. His hand slid around your waist, fingers curling possessively as he bent his head, lips brushing the corner of your mouth. “Y’know,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, “you look real fuckin’ pretty today.” Heat shot through you instantly, though you tried to disguise it with a roll of your eyes. You tapped his chest lightly, a weak reprimand. “You’re too much of a flirt.” He smirked, the expression boyish despite the tattoos cutting across his skin. “Maybe. But it’s true.”
Your lips parted to say something sharp, something deflective, but instead you heard yourself laugh—a soft, incredulous sound—and mutter, “Who would have thought? Big, scary CEO Sukuna… the man who had me as his ‘other woman’ for years… turns out to be sweet.” You hadn’t meant for the words to come out, but they hung there in the air, naked and sharp with memory. Sukuna’s expression flickered, his smirk gentling as he pressed another kiss to your lips, softer this time. For once, he didn’t respond with arrogance or vulgarity. Just silence, his thumb brushing your waist, and that was the moment Clara saw.
She had padded up the stairs and come around the corner, earbuds dangling in her hand, only to freeze mid-step at the sight of her father’s arms wrapped around you, his mouth brushing yours, his voice low and intimate. Her breath hitched. She ducked back instantly, heart pounding, cheeks burning with confusion. Sukuna kissing you was… not shocking, not really. He had always been too close, too bold, too everywhere. But seeing it—seeing you laugh, seeing the way he touched you like you were his—was different.
Clara lingered at the top of the stairs, her fingers clutched around her earphones so tightly they bent. She didn’t know what to do. Should she tell Julian? Should she confront you? Or should she keep it quiet, pretend she hadn’t seen? Her eleven-year-old mind swirled with questions she couldn’t yet shape into words. Meanwhile, you were blissfully unaware. Sukuna’s arm stayed around your waist as he kissed the side of your head and muttered, “Stop lookin’ at me like that, woman, I’ll start thinkin’ you actually like me.” You shoved him away lightly, cheeks burning. “God, you’re unbearable.”
He grinned, watching you walk toward the kitchen, before following at a slower pace—his eyes softening in a way no one ever got to see but you.
Clara, however, stayed frozen at the top of the stairs, her chest rising and falling. Slowly, she retreated to her room, clutching her headphones like a secret talisman. When lunch was called a few minutes later, she came down quietly, sliding into her seat beside Julian. You were at the counter, serving bowls of rice and soup, while Sukuna leaned lazily against the wall, arms crossed, watching the chaos of family life unfold like he belonged to it.
Clara’s eyes flickered between the two of you. She noticed how you wouldn’t quite meet Sukuna’s gaze, how his smirk was softer than usual, how his arm brushed yours when he reached past you for a bowl.
Something had shifted.
And Clara knew.
Not with certainty—not enough to say anything out loud—but enough to tuck it away, enough to gnaw at her thoughts. She glanced at Julian, who was slouched and indifferent, scrolling on his phone, and thought of how he always rolled his eyes when Papa teased Mom, how he sometimes seemed to know more.
Maybe he knew already.
Maybe… everyone but her knew.
Her stomach turned. She bent her head over her food, stabbing at her rice with her chopsticks, her heart heavy with the weight of a secret she hadn’t asked to carry.
That night, after dinner and dishes and the quiet chaos of bedtime routines, the house settled into its usual hush. Esme was already knocked out, spread-eagled across her tiny bed with her stuffed rabbit clutched to her chest. You were still downstairs, folding the last of the laundry, Sukuna stretched out on the couch pretending to “keep you company” while actually dozing off. Clara lay in her bed, staring up at the ceiling, earbuds still in her hand but unused. Her cheeks burned every time she remembered what she saw in the hallway—the way Papa’s big tattooed hand had held Mama’s waist, the way he bent down and kissed her so soft, like those cheesy scenes in the movies. She squeezed her pillow tight, muffling a tiny squeal that sounded far too much like embarrassment.
She couldn’t keep it in. She needed to tell someone.
So she slipped out of bed in her socks and padded down the hall to Julian’s room. She didn’t knock—just pushed his door open and hissed, “Jules! Wake up!” Julian groaned, rolling over, phone still clutched in his hand. “Claraaa, what—”
“Shhh!” She scurried in and shut the door behind her, then scrambled onto his bed. “I have a secret.”
Julian squinted at her through the dark, hair sticking up, his thirteen-year-old grumpiness written all over his face. “If this is about Esme stealing your socks again, I don’t care.” Clara slapped his arm lightly. “No! It’s serious!” Julian sighed dramatically, shoving his phone onto the nightstand. “Fine. Spill it.” She leaned in close, lowering her voice like the house was bugged. “I saw Papa…” She hesitated, cheeks blazing, “…kissing Mama.” Julian froze. Then blinked. Then groaned and pulled his blanket over his head. “That’s it? That’s your big secret?”
Clara yanked the blanket back. “It’s not just that! He was holding her all close and telling her she looked pretty, and Mama was blushing and smiling and—ugh!” She buried her face in her hands, groaning. “It was so… gross.” Julian snorted. “Gross? Please. They’ve been like that forever. You’re just late to the party.” Clara’s head snapped up. “Wait—you knew?!”
“Obviously.” Julian rolled onto his back, hands behind his head, smirking like he was so above it all. “Papa’s not exactly subtle. He sneaks into Mom’s room at night. I caught him once.” Clara’s jaw dropped. “WHAT?!”
“Yeah,” Julian said smugly, “but I didn’t tell anyone. Thought you were smart enough to figure it out yourself.” Clara smacked his pillow in outrage. “Julian! Why didn’t you tell me?!”
“Because it’s funny watching you blush over it,” he teased, shoving her shoulder. Clara groaned and flopped onto his bed dramatically, covering her red face. “It’s just—they were so… lovey-dovey! Papa looked at Mama like she hung the moon or something. I almost died! He was supposed to be the scary mean one!” Julian snickered. “Yeah, well… scary mean dudes fall in love too, apparently.” Clara peeked through her fingers, still red as a tomato. “You think they’re gonna… like… get married?” Julian shrugged, grabbing his phone again. “Maybe. Doesn’t matter. As long as they’re happy.” Clara sat up, frowning. “You’re not embarrassed?”
“Nope.” He smirked. “But you sure are.” Her face heated even more. “Shut up, Julian!” He laughed, dodging the pillow she hurled at him, and for the first time since seeing you and Sukuna in the hall, Clara felt the secret grow a little lighter—because now it wasn’t just hers to hold.
Clara laid on her back beside Julian, her hair fanned across his pillow, their shoulders brushing. It wasn’t unusual—they always ended up like this, whispering into the dark when the house was quiet. Two years apart meant they’d grown into a rhythm of sharing secrets, complaints, and late-night thoughts that felt too heavy to carry alone. Her voice came out soft, a little shaky, still carrying the weight of what she’d seen in the hallway earlier. “Jules… do you think Dad would be upset?”
Julian turned his head toward her, one brow raised. “About what?” Clara fiddled with the hem of his blanket, cheeks warm. “If Mama and Papa… y’know… get together.” Julian frowned slightly, like the thought had crossed his mind but he hadn’t said it out loud yet. “Why?”
“Because…” Clara chewed her lip, eyes darting toward the ceiling. “Dad doesn’t like Papa. He never says it, but I know. I see it. The way he looks at him. And… what if it makes him mad? What if he doesn’t want to see us anymore?”
Her voice cracked at the end, and Julian sat up on one elbow, giving her a look that was way too protective for a thirteen-year-old. “Clara. Don’t say that. He’s not gonna stop seeing us. Dad loves us.”
“But—”
“No.” Julian’s voice was firm, quiet but sure. “Yeah, Dad doesn’t like Papa. He hates when Papa’s around Mama. I get that. But it doesn’t change how he feels about us. We’re still his kids, even if Papa’s our real dad.” Clara rolled onto her side, facing him. “But what if it hurts his feelings? Like, if Mama and Papa…” She trailed off, blushing furiously at the thought of you and Sukuna together like that again. “…start being a real couple.” Julian sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It probably will hurt. But that’s not our fault. That’s between them. And honestly? Dad’s strong enough to deal with it. He’s still gonna love you, me, and Esme no matter what.”
Clara stared at him, her little chest tightening. “How do you know?” Julian smirked, but it was soft, almost sad. “Because he promised me once. Back when the divorce started. I asked if he’d still love us even if things got… messy. And he said yes. Always.” Clara’s eyes filled, and she buried her face into his shoulder like she used to when she was smaller. “I just don’t want to lose anyone, Jules.” He patted her head awkwardly but with quiet care. “You won’t. Mama loves us, Papa loves us, Dad loves us. It’s just… complicated.” Clara let out a long sigh, muffled against him. “Complicated sucks.” Julian chuckled, leaning back down beside her. “Yeah. But at least we’ve got each other.” She smiled faintly, her fingers curling into his sleeve. “Yeah.”
Clara blinked at him in the dim light, shifting so she could see his face better. Her brother’s voice was softer now, almost fragile, like he was holding something that hurt too much to say out loud but couldn’t keep in anymore. “I’m just…” Julian’s jaw clenched as he stared at the ceiling. “…I’m tired of people breaking Mama’s heart.” Clara’s breath caught, her fingers stilling on the blanket.
“First it was Papa,” he went on, his tone heavy, carrying a weight far too old for thirteen. “Back then, when he used to hide us. Hide her. Like we were a secret. Like he didn’t want the world to know.” He swallowed, his throat working, remembering things he wasn’t supposed to understand at his age—memories of hushed arguments, your tears muffled behind closed doors, and Sukuna showing up with apologies he never said quite right.
“And now it’s Dad.” His voice broke just slightly, and he scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to chase away the sting behind his eyes. “He promised. He promised he’d always love her. That he’d be different. And now…” His breath shook, but he forced the words out anyway. “Now he’s gone too.” Clara stared at him, her own chest aching. She hated hearing that wobble in his voice—Julian never let himself cry in front of her, never wanted to seem weak.
He finally turned his head toward her, eyes glossy in the shadows. “I really hope Papa doesn’t hurt her again. I don’t think she can take it. And I…” His throat closed, but he pushed through, “…I don’t think I can take it either.” Clara’s lips wobbled, and she reached out to grip his hand tight, her small fingers lacing through his. “He won’t,” she whispered fiercely, though she wasn’t sure if she believed it herself. “Papa… he’s different now. He’s trying. I see it. I think… I think he really loves her.”
Julian let out a shaky laugh, bitter around the edges. “He’s always loved her, Clara. That’s the problem. Loving Mama’s easy. But staying? That’s the part no one seems to know how to do.” Clara’s tears spilled over, and she buried her face against his shoulder, whispering so soft it barely reached him— “Then maybe this time, they’ll get it right.” Julian stayed quiet for a long while, staring into the dark, his hand clutching hers. Inside, his heart burned with something sharp—an anger at the adults who kept fumbling the most important thing, mixed with a desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, this time would be different.
