𖤓 Pairings: Cowboy!Gojo x f!reader
𖤓 Content warnings + tags: : 18+ MDNI, childhood-friends-to-lovers, angst, fluff, eventual smut, (mentions of) virginity loss, alcohol use and partying, family drama, miscommunication, themes of self-worth and identity
wc — 97k words
𖤓 Synopsis: After getting expelled from college for one reckless mistake too many, you're shipped off to spend the summer with your estranged grandparents on their remote horse ranch—a place you haven’t set foot on since you were a kid. You expected boredom, chores, and a long, hot summer of shame. What you didn’t expect? The tall, cocky ranch-hand who remembers you all too well…and isn't about to let you forget your roots.
Prologue | Ranch Roads and Reunions
Still Waters, Beneath the Surface | A Harvest of Firsts
Under the Porch Light | Something Like Home
Ashes in the Grass | Torn at the Seams | Sweeter Than Honey
A Little Southern Hospitality | After the Dust Settles
Still Here | Things Left Unsaid
More Than One Way Home | Where Your Heart Pulls You
f1 driver!Gojo who left you in college after signing his first contract overseas, telling himself it was the right thing to do because long distance would’ve only dragged you down, and the airport goodbyes would’ve turned into resentment eventually (even though you never once asked him to choose between you and his dreams…)
f1 driver!Gojo told you that he didn’t want you waiting around for him while he chased his dreams, said that he’d rather you hate him now than grow to hate him later. Who actually believed it was “the mature and responsible thing to do”.
f1 driver!Gojo raced with Ferrari at twenty three and threw himself into it headfirst, training until his hands blistered and his body ached, watching his name climb headlines, thinking he’d made the right choice.
f1 driver!Gojo never knew unread messages were sitting in his inbox, never questioned why you suddenly stopped reaching out.
f1 driver!Gojo had five seasons of trophies and interviews and cameras flashing in his face, until he eventually had a bad season and started spiraling. He watched the internet turn on him overnight, scrolled through hate comments at one in the morning in his fancy hotel suite, reading strangers call him “overrated” and “washed up”. Who stared up at the ceiling and thought about the last time someone looked at him without expectations.
f1 driver!Gojo for some stupid reason, drove across the city and stood in front of your door because he couldn’t sit with himself any longer. That, and the fact that you were the only person who ever made him feel loved and supported.
f1 driver!Gojo almost didn’t expect the door to open to your tired face. He also didn’t expect a small kid to run down the hallway, hiding behind your leg, peeking up at him with your hair and his eyes, bright blue and curious.
f1 driver!Gojo almost threw up on your slippers.
f1 driver!Gojo understood before you could say a word. But he listened anyway when you explained that you tried to tell him, that you found out you were pregnant a month after he left. That you called and texted and waited for nothing, because his manager was a piece of shit that never passed along a single message that didn’t fit the image they’d built.
f1 driver!Gojo stood there feeling sick, knowing that you had to go through it all alone – the pregnancy and the birth – while he lived an oblivious life of luxury. Who didn’t get to see first steps, hear first words, or blow out first birthday candles. Who had to acknowledge the fact that he was a stranger in his own son’s life.
f1 driver!Gojo refused to miss anything else. He wanted to see him again and he meant it. He didn’t argue when you reasonably hesitated, agreed to meet at a park the next afternoon because he knew you needed time to talk to your son first.
f1 driver!Gojobarely slept that night from nerves, and showed up early with a small replica of his car in a gift bag because he had no idea how to act around a four year old who’d only heard stories about him. Who had to watch the hesitation in his son’s eyes, the years of distance and disappointment he’d regret for the rest of his life.
f1 driver!Gojo immediately fell in love with this kid though. Listening as he started babbling about racing and different drivers and teams he liked. Who had to swallow down his pride when he learned that his son’s favorite was Verstappen on RedBull instead of him (and the nausea when he innocently mentioned that “mommy thinks he’s cute”).
f1 driver!Gojo loved watching his son light up over the toy car, letting him sit in the driver’s seat of his real one parked nearby, showing him videos from inside the cockpit. Who realized that admiration was easy to earn, that excitement came quick when he had trophies and loud engines and cool stories.
f1 driver!Gojo knew you’d be harder to convince, but he understood that you couldn’t be won over with toys and promises, that you’d been there every day and handled it all alone. Who had to accept that his son reached for your hand first, naturally leaned into your side when he got tired, because trust had been built without him and he’d have to earn his place
f1 driver!Gojo walked back to his car alone afterward, with grass on his jeans and his son’s sweet little voice replaying in his head, desperately trying to figure out how he was supposed to be a father and a Ferrari driver at the same time. But he knew he wanted both.
a/n: this is written very poorly, but my sleep deprived brain is gonna post this anyway without overthinking it
!Ryomen Sukuna; who falls in love with the concubine he hated the most
Every woman brought to his estate understood the rules of survival before they even crossed the threshold.
You bowed until your forehead touched the tatami. You spoke only when spoken to. You anticipated his moods, read the terrifying language of his four eyes, and offered flattery or tears depending on what type of amusement he was seeking that day.
To center your entire existence around Ryomen Sukuna was the only way to ensure your head remained attached to your shoulders.
Except you didn't.
You hadn't knelt when he first entered your quarters three months ago. You had been lying on your side, propped up on an elbow, reading a translated scroll from the northern provinces, and you had merely shifted your gaze to look at him, entirely unimpressed by the sudden, heavy drop in atmospheric pressure that usually accompanied his presence.
"Stand when I enter," he had commanded, his upper eyes narrowing into dangerous, ruby slits.
You had turned a page. "Then leave and enter again. Perhaps I will feel like it next time."
You hadn't scrambled to fix your posture. You had just looked at him with an expression of profound boredom.
The attendants behind him had turned white as ghosts, bracing for the inevitable spray of blood. Sukuna’s jaw had set, a terrifying, low growl vibrating from his chest. But you hadn't trembled.
If he wanted to kill you, he would kill you. Fawning over him wasn't going to change his nature, so you simply refused to waste the energy.
He hadn't killed you. Instead, he had left, the doors slamming shut with enough force to rattle the shoji screens.
And that was the exact moment the nightmare began. Because from that night onward, Sukuna became an insufferable, permanent fixture in your life.
"You are eating that wrong."
You stopped your chopsticks halfway to your mouth, letting out a long, slow exhale through your nose. It was midnight.
You had been looking forward to a quiet, solitary meal of cold rice and pickled plums, but Sukuna had simply materialized in the corner of your room ten minutes ago, dripping wet from a thunderstorm, and had proceeded to sit directly on the edge of your bedding.
"I am eating it the way I have eaten it for more than twenty years," you said, not looking at him. "If my technique offends you, the door is exactly where you left it."
Sukuna scoffed, leaning back on his palms. His massive, tattooed frame took up half the space in your small room, his lower arms crossed over his chest while his upper right hand casually reached over and swiped a plum straight from your bowl.
"You have a wretched attitude," he remarked, popping the fruit into his mouth and chewing lazily. "The women in the east hall weep with gratitude if I so much as glance toward their courtyard. You look at me like I am a stray dog that ruined your garden."
"Stray dogs are quieter," you muttered, finally looking up to glare at him. "And they don't steal my food."
Sukuna’s lower mouth twitched into a sharp, jagged grin. He loved it. The realization turned your stomach, a strange, dizzying mixture of irritation and heat.
He didn't come to your room because he wanted a concubine; he came because he was a creature driven entirely by conflict, and you were the only person in the entire empire who refused to give him the satisfaction of a fight. You gave him nothing. You gave him a wall of pure, unbothered apathy, and it was driving him entirely insane.
He leaned forward suddenly, crowding your space. The smell of the storm, ozone and rain, rushed over you. Before you could pull back, his large, calloused hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around your jaw.
It wasn't the brutal, bone-crushing grip he used on his enemies. It was controlled, a heavy, unyielding restraint that forced your face up toward his.
"You should fear me," he murmured, his upper eyes tracking the movement of your throat as you swallowed. His thumb thumbed the soft skin right beneath your lower lip, a deliberate, electric friction that made your toes curl inside your robes. "A single flick of my finger, and this pretty little throat splits wide open."
You met his gaze evenly, refusing to let the wild, frantic thudding of your heart show on your face. "Then do it. I'm tired of your bragging."
Sukuna froze. For a second, the silence in the room was deadly. Then, a loud, booming laugh tore from his throat, the sound rough and genuine as he released your jaw, shifting his weight until he was practically draped over your lap, his heavy head resting casually against your thigh.
"Insufferable," he muttered, closing all four of his eyes as if he owned the space. "Utterly insufferable."
You stared down at the King of Curses currently using your legs as a pillow, your hand hovering over his unruly pink hair, entirely tempted to shove him off. But you didn't. You just sighed, picking up your chopsticks again, ignoring the way his subconscious weight felt entirely too natural against you.
The shift happened. In Sukuna’s dictionary, words like love or devotion were meaningless concepts invented by the weak to justify their dependency. He would never admit to favoring you. If anyone asked, he would simply say you were a minor amusement, a dull distraction from his boredom.
But the rest of the estate wasn't blind.
The servants noticed that the rare silks brought from the western raids, the ones Sukuna usually threw into the treasury to rot—somehow kept finding their way into your wardrobe because he had casually grumbled that your current robes looked "like rags."
The guards noticed that if Sukuna left your courtyard irritated, he was significantly less likely to execute someone in the main hall.
And then there was the incident with the lord of the northern clans.
During a formal banquet, the lord had made a passing, disparaging remark about your status, calling you an "eccentric, useless mouth to feed" who didn't know her place.
You hadn't even heard the comment; you had been across the pavilion, systematically ignoring Sukuna’s attempts to make you try a cup of sake.
But Sukuna had heard it.
He hadn't made a scene. He had simply stood up, walked over to the lord’s table, and dismantled the man’s entire lineage within three seconds, leaving the pavilion drenched in red before sitting back down next to you, casually picking up his chopsticks as if nothing had happened.
"You're exhausting when you're angry," you had murmured, wiping a stray drop of blood from the sleeve of your robe with a click of your tongue.
Sukuna hadn't answered. He had just grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand toward him until you were forced to use your sleeve to wipe a smudge of gore from his cheek instead. He hadn't asked. He had just assumed your hands belonged on his skin.
Late one evening, weeks later, the heat of the summer had turned the air thick and oppressive. You were lying awake in your bed, staring at the ceiling, when the shoji screen slid open without a sound.
Sukuna stepped inside. He looked exhausted, the heavy marks of a curse battle still lingering in the tension of his shoulders. He didn't speak. He just shed his heavy outer robe, letting it hit the floor, before crawling directly onto your sleeping mat.
"Go away," you groaned, trying to roll over to the far edge. "It is too hot for this."
"Silence," he grunted, a large, heavy arm snaking around your waist from behind. He hauled you back against his chest with a single, effortless tug, his massive body completely enveloping yours.
His chest was blazing hot, a furnace of pure cursed energy, and his face buried itself directly into the crook of your neck.
"You cling too much," you muttered, though you didn't actually fight the hold. It was a useless endeavor anyway.
"What nonsense," Sukuna rumbled, his voice thick with sleep, his lower arms tightening around your hips, anchoring you so securely to him that you could feel the rhythmic, heavy thud of his heart against your spine. "You are small. You fit here. Stop complaining."
You lay there in the dark, his breath warm against your skin, his long, sharp fingernails absentmindedly tracing patterns into the fabric of your garment near your ribs.
He was completely unaware of how intimate the gesture was, how entirely possessive his body became the moment he was near you. He thought he was just resting. He thought he was just taking what was his.
You turned your head slightly, looking back at him. His eyes were closed, his expression unusually peaceful in the dim moonlight.
"You're an idiot, Ryomen Sukuna," you whispered softly.
A faint, arrogant smirk touched his lips, though he didn't open his eyes. His hand moved up, his fingers lacing through yours with a casual, unthinking pressure, locking your hands together against the bedding.
"And you are still breathing," he murmured into your skin, his grip tightening just a fraction more. "Be grateful I find your stupidity so entertaining."
You closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into his terrifying, inescapable warmth, finally accepting that while the King of Curses would never say the words, his actions had already rewritten the entire world around you.
one genre of fanfiction that seems to have mostly disappeared since i became an adult is shenanigans-type fics. like not exactly crack but just "the gang goes to 7-11" type, extremely low-stakes plot stories. the beach episodes of fanfiction. i just feel like i don't see those around so much anymore. whered they go. i miss them :(
not to be a hater but the new percy jackson season actually gave nothing like why was literally every part of the plot changed :( just weird idk i wouldn’t even be mad if it wasn’t initially promoted as at least mostly following the books why why why is it getting more praise than the movie when it’s lowkenuinely doing the same shit
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