Crazy gf!reader changing bio to ‘single’ after Boyfriend!Sukuna doesn’t reply to a text immediately
The door slams open.
“What the fuck is your problem? I didn’t respond for one fucking hour, and suddenly we’re done?” he asks, irritated beyond hell. He drops his heavy duffel bag on the floor and comes to sit behind you on the sofa. You’re lying on your stomach on the carpet, painting your nails. You don’t reply. He rolls his eyes and nudges your thigh with his foot. “Don’t ignore me, you stupid, pain in my ass. Put ‘Sukuna’s girl’ back in your bio. Now.”
Innocently, you turn to look at him. A challenging brow is cocked up. “Or what?”
Sukuna’s eye twitches.
“Look, idiot, I would have texted back if I had my phone on me. You know I didn’t. I’ve got nothing to apologise for, so if that’s what you’re waiting for, you’ve got another thing coming. Now delete it, or I might start thinking we really are broken up, in which case I won’t be held accountable for the things I do.”
An eerie silence takes over. You put the nail polish down and sit up. Quietly, you mumble, “...so you hate me.”
With a blank stare, he watches you wrap your hands around your neck and squeeze hard. Gurgling sounds escape into the air as you writhe on the floor, moving like a drying-out fish. Sukuna pinches the bridge of his nose. “Quit it. I’m serious. You look constipated.”
“Shut…up,” you wheeze out. “I’m -hah- dy…ing.”
Impatiently, he pulls your hands away by the wrists, like you’re a misbehaving toddler who’s just picked up dog shit. “Enough.”
Realising the act isn’t working, you pause for a second, and he knows from that look in your eyes that you’re calculating your next step. Maybe you’ll try to make a run for the window again, or you’ll tackle him with your claws out, or maybe you’ll smash the TV up and pin it on him. It’s impossible to predict your next moves, even after how many years he’s been with you.
Naturally, you do none of the things he anticipated, and you simply resume strangling yourself.
Sukuna groans. “Fuck my fucking life. Was I a dictator in my past life or something? Christ.” Whilst you shamelessly discard any dignity you have, Sukuna picks up your phone and gets into your socials with ease. He changes your bio back, and replies with his own dick pics to the assholes who sent their micros, and calls it a day. “I’m hungry,” he suddenly says. “Wanna go to a drive-thru?”
As though nothing happened at all, you stop choking yourself out and shrug. “Yeah, actually. ‘was waiting for you to suggest it so I don’t look like a big back.”
A corner of his lips curve up. “I think that moment’s passed, sweetheart.”
“Ugh, I’d rather you call me a whore,” you reply, nose scrunched up.
Sukuna snorts. “Yeah, bet you do.”
is this even coherent? I think I'm out of practice
The Painter and the King of Curses || Ryomen Sukuna
ryomen sukuna x f!reader (one shot... for now?)
"In the Heian era, you are the sharp-tongued queen of Ryomen Sukuna, the feared King of Curses. Trapped in an arranged marriage you pretend to despise, all you want is peace, paint, and solitude. But between Sukuna’s stolen kisses, endles devotion, and irritating affection, you begin to realize the monster you call useless may be the only one who truly understands you."
Ryomen Sukuna had conquered villages with less effort than it took to coax his wife out of her chambers.
He had crushed clans beneath his feet, taken tribute from trembling lords, turned proud sorcerers into bloodied warnings, and made kings kneel with a single glance.
And yet his queen—
his infuriating, sharp-tongued, paint-splattered, impossible queen—
had once looked him dead in all four eyes and told him he was blocking the sunlight and ruining the angle of her lilies.
Sukuna had fallen more deeply in love with her on the spot.
The marriage had been arranged years ago, a political offering from a quiet village tucked between misty hills and rice fields. You had not come to him willingly, not with blushing cheeks and lowered lashes like the nobles had expected. No, you had arrived with your chin lifted, your eyes full of stormlight, and your hands stained with paint instead of prayer.
You were no sorcerer. No noblewoman trained to bow prettily and obey. You had been a painter’s daughter, a village girl with a gift for turning blank silk into dreamscapes and paper screens into gardens that never wilted.
And somehow, after all the negotiations, offerings, threats, and trembling agreements, you had become the wife of the King of Curses.
His queen.
His greatest treasure.
His greatest headache.
You could not stand him.
At least, that was what you told anyone foolish enough to ask.
You could not stand how large he was, how heavily his presence filled every room, how his footsteps made servants stiffen and candles tremble. You could not stand the way he always found you, no matter where you hid. You could not stand how he leaned over your shoulder while you painted, how he tried to kiss your cheek while you mixed pigments, how one of his hands would always find your waist as if your body belonged there beneath his palm.
Most of all, you could not stand how much he enjoyed irritating you.
“You are frowning again,” Sukuna once murmured, his mouth near your temple.
You were sitting by the open lattice doors of your private chamber, sleeves tied back, hair loosely pinned, a brush between your fingers. Before you stretched a silk canvas washed with pale blue—morning mist over distant mountains, almost finished before his shadow fell over it.
You stopped mid-stroke.
Slowly, you turned your head and glared up at him.
“And you are breathing again,” you said. “Yet I suffer in silence.”
One of his mouths curled.
The other smiled outright.
“You call this silence?”
“I call this restraint.”
Sukuna lowered himself behind you with terrible ease for a creature of his size, all broad shoulders, inked skin, sharp teeth, and royal arrogance. Four arms folded around nothing, though you could tell he was resisting the urge to touch you. He was always resisting the urge to touch you.
Barely.
“You have ignored me all morning,” he said.
“I was happy all morning.”
“You wound me.”
“You will heal.”
He laughed under his breath.
It was a low, dark sound, one that made lesser beings turn pale and pray. To you, it was only an annoyance—warm and too close against the side of your neck.
You dabbed your brush into a dish of watered ink.
“Move.”
“No.”
“You are in my light.”
“The sun is there.”
“You are enormous. You are in all light.”
That made him grin, pleased in the most irritating way.
“You flatter me, wife.”
“I insult you, husband. Your skull must be full of pebbles if you cannot tell the difference.”
A deep, fond rumble moved through his chest.
Then, predictably, Sukuna leaned down and pressed his mouth to your shoulder.
You groaned so dramatically that one of the servant girls outside the door startled.
“Sukuna.”
“Hm?”
“You are far too affectionate for a four-armed monster.”
His lips lingered against your skin.
“And yet you married me.”
“I was traded like a decorative vase.”
“A very loud vase.”
You twisted around and jabbed the wooden end of your brush against his chest. It left a small smear of blue pigment over one of his black markings.
“Do not mock me in my own chambers.”
“These chambers are in my estate.”
“Everything is always yours, yes, yes, the estate, the throne, the tribute, the roads, the mountains, the moon.” You turned back to your painting with a huff. “How exhausting it must be to own everything and still have no manners.”
Sukuna was quiet for a moment.
Then one of his hands reached, his fingers brushing a loose curl from your shoulder.
“You are mine too.”
Your brush paused.
It was always like that with him. Arrogant, possessive, unbearable—and then soft in a way that made your ribs ache. He said things like that with all the certainty of a god who had carved the world open and chosen you from the ruins.
You hated how your face warmed.
So you scoffed.
“Unfortunately.”
He chuckled again and leaned closer, clearly intending to kiss your cheek.
You lifted your hand without looking and pressed two paint-stained fingers over his mouth.
“No.”
His eyes narrowed, amused.
“No?”
“You are bothering me.”
“I am admiring you.”
“You breathe too loudly to admire quietly.”
“You used to be more frightened of me.”
“You used to be less clingy.”
That made him pause.
Only slightly.
Then Sukuna straightened, all four arms shifting as he stood. His expression flattened into something grumbling and wounded, though only you would ever have dared call it that.
“Fine,” he said. “I will leave you to your little mountains and your misery.”
He turned.
You watched him take exactly three steps toward the door.
The chamber suddenly felt too empty.
Not lonely.
Of course not.
You were not lonely. You loved being left alone. You desired solitude the way flowers desired rain. You were peaceful without him looming over you like a smug thundercloud.
Still.
Your brush hovered uselessly over the silk.
You sighed, loud and irritated.
“Fine.”
Sukuna stopped.
You could see the grin beginning before he even turned around.
“You may stay,” you said sharply. “But you are not to breathe down my neck. You are not to kiss me. You are not to touch anything. You are not to make suggestions. You are not to ask what I am painting before I am done. You may sit over there and watch quietly like a civilized beast.”
He turned back to face you, satisfaction gleaming in his red eyes.
“A civilized beast.”
“Barely.”
“And if I disobey?”
“I will paint your face while you sleep.”
“I do not sleep deeply enough for that.”
“I will find a way.”
Sukuna returned without hesitation and sat near the wall, folding himself down with the grand patience of a predator pretending not to hunt. His robes pooled darkly around him. His lower pair of arms rested across his lap, while the upper pair folded over his chest.
He watched you.
Silent.
Still.
Utterly enthralled.
And though you refused to admit it, your brush moved more easily when he was there.
Not because you liked him.
No.
Absolutely not.
It was simply easier to paint when the most dangerous creature in the world sat at your feet as if your smallest sigh could command him.
That was all.
Nothing more.
Certainly nothing tender.
Certainly nothing dangerously close to love.
⸻
The estate learned very quickly that the queen was not delicate.
Beautiful, yes. Beloved by their lord, terrifyingly so. Draped in fine robes and jewels, given every luxury the treasury could provide, seated beside the King of Curses as though she had been born from moonlight and command.
But delicate?
No.
The queen had once chased a courtier out of the eastern hall with a wet brush because he had called one of her paintings “pleasant.”
Pleasant, apparently, was an insult worthy of violence.
Another time, she had ordered three servants to rearrange the same vase of plum branches eleven times before declaring the original position had been correct and everyone involved lacked vision.
Sukuna had watched the entire ordeal with his chin in one hand, smiling dreamily.
Uraume had not smiled once.
Uraume had served Lord Sukuna long enough to withstand bloodshed, curses, war, dismemberment, executions, storms, sorcerers, poison, betrayal, and the occasional body being thrown through a wall.
But the Lady of the estate in a creative mood was another matter entirely.
One afternoon, Uraume approached Sukuna in the main hall while he lounged upon his great seat, listening with half-interest as two trembling men argued over tribute rights.
“My lord,” Uraume said, kneeling.
Sukuna lifted one hand.
The arguing men went silent at once.
“What is it?”
Uraume’s pale expression remained perfectly controlled.
“The Lady is in quite the mood today.”
Sukuna’s attention sharpened immediately.
His upper eyes narrowed. His lower eyes brightened with interest.
“What kind of mood?”
“The dangerous kind.”
“The interesting kind, then.”
Uraume paused.
“She threw paint on a servant.”
The hall went still.
The trembling men looked as if they wished to vanish into the polished floor.
Sukuna blinked.
Then leaned forward slightly.
“Why?”
“They interrupted her when she was, according to the Lady, ‘inspired.’”
A slow, delighted smile spread across Sukuna’s face.
“She was inspired?”
Uraume’s mouth tightened.
“The servant is now blue.”
A deep laugh rumbled out of him.
The men before the throne flinched as if it were thunder. Sukuna looked almost proud, his sharp teeth flashing, one elbow resting on his knee.
“What did the fool expect, interrupting inspiration?”
“My lord,” Uraume said carefully, “the servant was bringing her tea.”
“Then they should have brought it less stupidly.”
Before Uraume could respond, another servant hurried into the hall, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the floor.
“Lord Sukuna,” he said, voice shaking, “forgive me, but the Lady is going crazy.”
The temperature in the hall dropped.
Not because of Uraume.
Because Sukuna’s smile vanished.
The servant froze.
Sukuna slowly turned his head.
“What did you say?”
The servant began to tremble violently.
“I—I only meant—”
“Everyone in this estate is going crazy,” Sukuna said, voice low and lethal. “My queen is the only normal perfection under this roof.”
Silence.
Heavy, suffocating silence.
Then Sukuna waved one hand as if the matter bored him.
“Leave.”
The servant nearly tripped over himself escaping.
The two men who had come to argue tribute looked pale enough to be ghosts.
Uraume stayed where they were, head bowed, expression unreadable.
Sukuna rose from his seat.
“I will handle her.”
Uraume said nothing, though the faintest glimmer of doubt crossed their face.
Sukuna noticed.
His eyes narrowed.
“What?”
“My lord,” Uraume said calmly, “forgive me, but the Lady rarely allows herself to be handled.”
Sukuna’s expression shifted.
Not anger.
Something worse.
Fondness.
“She allows me.”
Uraume lowered their gaze.
Barely.
The servants watched him leave the hall with the unmistakable, terrible realization that their Lord Ryomen Sukuna—the King of Curses, the beast of legend, the monster to whom clans offered daughters and gold and prayers for mercy—
had hearts in his eyes for his deranged wife.
And worse.
He seemed entirely pleased about it.
⸻
You were furious when Sukuna entered your chambers.
That was not unusual.
You were often furious when Sukuna entered your chambers.
Sometimes because he had interrupted you. Sometimes because he had not visited soon enough, though you would rather have swallowed glass than admit that. Sometimes because he spoke. Sometimes because he remained silent in a way that made you aware of him.
Today, you were standing before a long stretch of silk pinned against the wall, your sleeves rolled, your hair falling out of its pins, your cheek smeared with red pigment.
At your feet lay bowls of crushed minerals, flower dyes, soot, powdered shells, and several discarded brushes.
The floor looked like a battlefield.
Sukuna stepped inside and surveyed the damage with open admiration.
“My queen.”
You jerked around and groaned.
Loudly.
With your entire soul.
“No.”
Sukuna stopped.
“I have said one thing.”
“You have ruined everything.”
“I opened the door.”
“You opened the door with the aura of a walking execution and made me lose my inspiration.”
His brows lifted.
“Did I?”
“Yes.” You threw your brush onto a cloth. “Now I may as well use my blood to paint, because no one in this cursed estate can give me a decent red color.”
Sukuna’s gaze moved to the red on your cheek.
Then your hands.
Then the half-finished painting.
It was not mountains today. Not flowers. Not the soft village scenes you sometimes painted when you thought he was not looking.
It was him.
Not plainly. Never plainly.
It was a storm given shape, a shrine shadowed beneath a red sky, four dark arms emerging from smoke and silk, eyes like open wounds in the heavens. Beautiful and violent. Sacred and damned.
Sukuna stared.
Something in his expression softened so quickly that you had to look away.
“Do not look at it.”
“It is me.”
“It is a storm.”
“It is me.”
“You are very arrogant.”
“You painted me with four arms.”
“I paint many hideous things.”
“And red eyes.”
“Many hideous things have red eyes.”
“And my markings.”
“I was unfortunate enough to remember them.”
His mouth twitched.
He stepped closer.
You pointed a stained finger at him.
“If you touch me, I will scream.”
“You scream often.”
“I will scream differently.”
“You promise?”
“Sukuna.”
He laughed, low and pleased, but stopped close enough that his warmth reached you. He smelled faintly of smoke, iron, and expensive incense. You hated that you knew that. You hated that some traitorous part of you relaxed when he was near.
You crossed your arms.
“I told Uraume not to send anyone in.”
“They told me.”
“And yet here you are.”
“I am not anyone.”
“No. You are worse.”
“Worse?”
“You require more space.”
His grin sharpened.
“I have heard no complaints.”
“Then your hearing is as poor as your manners.”
Sukuna bent slightly, bringing his face closer to yours. Even after years of marriage, his size should have frightened you. It did, sometimes, in a distant and sensible part of your mind. But fear had long ago become tangled with familiarity, and familiarity had become tangled with something warmer.
Something dangerous.
Something with teeth.
“You are in a foul mood,” he murmured.
“I am in an artistic mood.”
“You threw paint at a servant.”
“They walked into my inspiration.”
“With tea.”
“They should have known better.”
“They should have,” Sukuna agreed immediately.
Your eyes narrowed.
“Do not agree with me just because you think I am pretty.”
“I think you are more than pretty.”
“Do not.”
“You are unbearable.”
“That is better.”
“Difficult.”
“Yes.”
“Violent.”
“Only when provoked.”
“Brilliant.”
Your mouth closed.
Sukuna watched you, amusement softening around the edges.
“My impossible wife,” he said.
Your face warmed.
How dare he.
You turned away at once and snatched up another brush.
“I am busy.”
“You are blushing.”
“I am overheated because this estate is full of fools.”
“It is winter.”
“Then I am angry.”
“You are always angry.”
“And yet you continue speaking.”
He moved behind you, but this time, he did not touch. He stood close, though, close enough that one of his shadows fell beside yours across the painted silk.
You tried to ignore him.
You truly did.
But Sukuna was impossible to ignore. He occupied a room the way fire occupied dry wood. Even standing silently, he was too much—too large, too warm, too alive, too focused on you.
Your brush hovered over the painting.
His voice came quieter.
“The red is wrong.”
You stiffened.
Slowly, murderously, you turned your head.
“What did I say about suggestions?”
“That I was not to make them.”
“And yet?”
“That was an observation.”
You stared at him.
He stared back, entirely unrepentant.
Then he lifted one hand, palm upward. Resting there was a small lacquered container.
You glanced at it.
“What is that?”
“A pigment from the southern merchants.”
Your suspicion sharpened.
“When did you get that?”
“When I heard you complaining three days ago.”
“I complain often.”
“I listen often.”
That silenced you more effectively than any threat ever could have.
Sukuna opened the container.
Inside was red.
Not the dull rust-red the servants had brought. Not the too-bright flower dye that dried pink. This was rich, deep, terrible red—the color of pomegranate flesh, temple gates at sunset, fresh blood on white snow.
Your breath caught before you could stop it.
Sukuna noticed.
Of course he noticed.
He always noticed.
You reached for the container, but he lifted it just out of your grasp.
Your eyes snapped up.
“Sukuna.”
He smiled.
“Ask nicely.”
“I will bite you.”
“You do that when pleased too.”
You gasped.
“Sukuna.”
He laughed and lowered the pigment into your hands.
You clutched it close, scowling down at it as if it had personally offended you by making you happy.
“This is acceptable,” you muttered.
“Only acceptable?”
“It may keep me from opening my wrist for color.”
His eyes darkened.
“Do not joke about spilling your blood.”
The command in his voice made your spine straighten.
There he was.
The king.
The monster.
The husband who let you insult him endlessly but turned cold at the thought of your pain.
You looked up at him.
For once, your voice softened.
“I was not going to.”
“I know.”
“Then stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you will burn the world because I made a dramatic comment.”
“I have burned more for less.”
Your chest tightened.
How absurd he was. How terrifying. How devoted in a way that made no sense at all.
You clicked your tongue and turned back to your painting.
“Sit down.”
His expression shifted.
“Sit?”
“Yes. You are brooding too loudly.”
“You want me to stay?”
“I want you to stop hovering.”
“That is not the same.”
“It is the offer you are getting.”
Sukuna sat.
Victorious.
You pretended not to see it.
For the next hour, he watched you paint. You added the red carefully, letting it bleed into the sky behind the shrine, into the eyes hidden in smoke, into the thin lines that made the whole piece breathe. Sukuna said nothing. He only sat there, all four arms relaxed, eyes fixed on you as if watching a miracle unfold.
It made your hands steadier.
It made your heart stupid.
Eventually, you said, “Stop staring at me.”
“I am staring at the painting.”
“You are staring at my face.”
“It is the better view.”
You nearly dropped the brush.
“You are nauseating.”
“You married me.”
“You keep saying that as though I chose it.”
His smile faded, just a little.
You felt it before you saw it.
The air shifted.
Quietly, he said, “No. You did not.”
Your fingers tightened around the brush.
There were things between you that neither of you stepped on carelessly.
The arrangement. The village. The bargain. The day you arrived dressed in wedding silk with fury in your eyes and grief tucked beneath your ribs.
You had not chosen him then.
But years had passed.
And choice, you had learned, was not always a door opened once. Sometimes it was a thousand small doors. A thousand moments where you could tell him to leave and did not. A thousand times he reached for you and stopped when you glared. A thousand evenings where he brought you pigments, fruit, rare paper, silence.
A thousand mornings where you woke in his estate and no longer dreamed of running.
You dipped the brush into the red.
“I choose to let you stay,” you said, not looking at him.
Sukuna said nothing.
But the room warmed.
⸻
By late afternoon, you demanded air.
Not requested.
Demanded.
The servants, still nervous after the paint incident, scrambled to open the garden pathways and bring cushions beneath the persimmon trees. Sukuna walked beside you through the estate grounds, wearing his dark robes and a look of deep satisfaction, as though he had personally invented the sun because you wished to sit under it.
The garden was one of the few places in the estate you genuinely adored.
It had been made after your arrival.
Sukuna claimed it had existed before, but you knew better. The first year of your marriage, you had complained endlessly that the estate was all stone and shadow and blood-colored banners, and that if you had to live among monsters, you should at least have flowers.
Three weeks later, workers arrived.
Now the garden stretched beyond the eastern wing in careful layers of beauty—ponds filled with pale koi, winding stone paths, plum trees, irises, mossy lanterns, and a small pavilion where you often hid with your sketchbooks.
Sukuna thought you did not know it had been built for you.
You did.
You simply enjoyed pretending not to.
You sat beneath a tree while Sukuna lowered himself beside you, massive and regal and absurdly attentive. A tray of fruit rested between you: peeled persimmons, sliced pears, sugared plums, pomegranate seeds gleaming like little jewels.
You picked up a pear slice.
Sukuna took it from your fingers.
You glared.
He lifted it to your mouth.
“I am not a child.”
“You forgot to eat.”
“I was busy.”
“You were threatening to use your blood as pigment.”
“As an artistic possibility.”
“As stupidity.”
Your eyes widened.
“Did you just call me stupid?”
“No. I called the idea stupid.”
“I am full of ideas.”
“Painfully aware.”
You opened your mouth to argue, and he placed the pear slice against your lips.
You bit it from his fingers with unnecessary aggression.
Sukuna smiled.
The fool actually smiled.
You chewed angrily, then pointed toward the estate.
“Your household is incompetent.”
“My household?”
“Yes, yours. I refuse ownership.”
“You are the queen.”
“Not of them.”
“Of everything here.”
“I decline.”
“You cannot decline.”
“I just did.”
Sukuna fed you another piece of fruit, his expression serene.
You accepted it because you were hungry, not because you enjoyed being fussed over.
Obviously.
“The servant this morning,” you continued, “walked in without rhythm.”
Sukuna’s brows lifted.
“Without rhythm.”
“Yes. There is a rhythm to interruption. A soft knock. A pause. A respectful fear. Then entry.”
“A respectful fear.”
“Exactly.”
“I will have Uraume teach a course.”
“You should. And the tea was cold.”
“It was freshly made.”
“It became cold when it offended me.”
“Ah.”
“And the red pigments were embarrassing. Embarrassing, Sukuna. I am married to the King of Curses, and I cannot get a red that does not dry like old clay? What is the point of tyranny if not access to good materials?”
He nodded gravely.
“You are right.”
“I know I am right.” You took a pomegranate seed from his palm. “And the western hall smells like damp wood.”
“I will have it fixed.”
“And one of the maids moved my brushes.”
“I will have her executed.”
You paused.
“Sukuna.”
He smirked.
“Dismissed?”
“Do not be dramatic.”
“You threatened your own veins over paint.”
“That was art.”
“My mistake.”
You huffed and leaned back against the tree, your robes pooling around you in soft layers. Sunlight slipped through the leaves, dappling your skin and the curve of your cheek. Sukuna watched the light touch you with quiet reverence.
You noticed.
Of course you noticed.
“Stop looking at me like I am some holy thing.”
“You are.”
“I am not.”
“You are to me.”
You stared at him.
Your annoyance faltered.
Sukuna held another piece of fruit near your mouth, but his expression had gone softer again. Not weak. Never weak. But open in a way reserved only for you.
It was terribly inconvenient, being loved by a monster.
Especially one who meant it.
You leaned forward and took the fruit, slower this time.
Then you looked away.
“I need to paint outside more.”
Sukuna blinked.
You sat upright suddenly, struck by the thought as if lightning had landed in your lap.
“I need to paint outside more,” you repeated. “Why have I been painting indoors like some miserable old widow?”
Sukuna’s mouth opened.
You turned on him.
“Why did you not give me that idea?”
He stared.
“I was unaware I controlled your inspiration.”
“You should have suggested it.”
“You told me never to make suggestions.”
“That was inside.”
“How foolish of me.”
“You are useless.”
“Yes,” he said immediately.
Your brows pulled together.
“Do not agree so quickly.”
“You said I am useless.”
“You are supposed to argue.”
“You dislike when I argue.”
“I dislike when you do anything incorrectly.”
“And breathing?”
“Frequently incorrect.”
His grin returned, slow and sharp.
You pouted.
Genuinely pouted.
It was ridiculous and soft and devastating, and Sukuna looked at you as though you had just handed him the moon.
“You are laughing at me,” you accused.
“I would not dare.”
“You are doing it with your eyes.”
“I have four. Hard to control all of them.”
You narrowed your gaze.
Then, before he could make another smug remark, you leaned forward and kissed him.
It was brief.
A press of your mouth to his.
Warm. Sudden. Sweet enough to ruin him.
Sukuna went completely still.
Every servant within sight immediately found something else to look at.
You pulled back as if nothing had happened and picked up a plum.
“Anyway,” you said, “the garden is acceptable, but there are not enough red flowers.”
Sukuna remained frozen for half a breath longer.
Then his hand slowly lifted to his mouth, touching where you had kissed him.
His eyes had gone molten.
Utterly ruined.
You ignored it.
“There should be more,” you continued, warming to your rant. “Not roses. Everyone chooses roses because they lack imagination. I want spider lilies. And camellias. And perhaps poppies, though I do not trust the gardeners to understand the shade I mean. They will bring me something orange and call it red, and then I will be forced to become cruel.”
“You are already cruel,” Sukuna murmured.
You gasped.
He leaned closer, smiling.
“To everyone but me.”
“I am cruel to you constantly.”
“No.” His voice lowered. “You are gentle with me in your own terrible way.”
You looked at him.
The garden rustled around you, leaves whispering overhead, koi shifting beneath the pond’s glassy surface. For a moment, you did not know what to say.
So naturally, you scowled.
“You are becoming sentimental. I hate that.”
“I know.”
“It makes you look foolish.”
“I know.”
“You should be embarrassed.”
“I am not.”
“You should be.”
“I am loved by my queen,” he said, gaze fixed on you. “Why would I be embarrassed?”
Your lips parted.
The nerve of him.
The sheer, towering, monstrous nerve.
“I did not say I love you.”
“You kissed me.”
“I was silencing you.”
“You kissed me.”
“You were being smug.”
“You kissed me.”
You grabbed a pomegranate seed and threw it at his chest.
It bounced harmlessly off him.
Sukuna looked down at it, then back at you.
“Violent little thing.”
“Clingy monster.”
“Brat.”
“Beast.”
“Wife.”
The word slipped between you like a hand at the small of your back.
Your glare softened before you could stop it.
Sukuna reached out—not quickly, not assuming. He touched your chin with two fingers, giving you every chance to pull away.
You did not.
He tilted your face toward him.
“You may paint outside tomorrow,” he said. “I will have the servants bring screens, silk, pigments, water, and fruit.”
“I did not ask permission.”
“I did not give permission. I gave resources.”
You considered this.
Acceptable.
“And you will not hover.”
“I will sit nearby.”
“Far nearby.”
“Nearby.”
“Sukuna.”
“Y/n.”
You hated when he said your name like that.
Like a vow.
Like a prayer.
Like even the gods would have to fight him for it.
You sighed dramatically and leaned back against the tree.
“Fine. You may sit nearby. But if you interrupt my inspiration, I will paint you green.”
His eyes glinted.
“Would I still be handsome?”
You rolled your eyes.
“You are impossible.”
“Would I?”
“You are fishing for compliments like a pathetic river man.”
“Answer.”
“No.”
His grin widened.
You lasted three seconds.
Then, with a mutter full of suffering, you said, “You would still be handsome.”
Sukuna looked entirely too pleased.
“Say it again.”
“I will not.”
“Once more.”
“I would rather swallow paint.”
He leaned down, one hand braced beside your hip, another resting behind you against the tree, caging you in without truly trapping you.
“You think I am handsome.”
“You are large. That is different.”
“And handsome.”
“And loud.”
“And handsome.”
“And annoying.”
“And handsome.”
“And handsome,” you snapped, cheeks hot. “There. Are you pleased now?”
His smile was wicked.
“Yes.”
“You are insufferable.”
“You adore me.”
“I tolerate you.”
“You kiss me.”
“To shut you up.”
“Do it again. I am speaking.”
You stared at him.
Then, despite yourself, you laughed.
It startled you more than it startled him—a real laugh, bright and unwilling, slipping out before you could bury it. Sukuna’s face changed when he heard it. Softened. Opened. As if your laughter had struck him in some ancient, unarmored place.
You hated that too.
Or you wanted to hate it.
Instead, you reached up, grabbed the front of his robes, and pulled him down.
This kiss was not as brief.
Sukuna was careful with you, always careful in the moments that mattered. For all his arrogance, for all his monstrous strength, his mouth moved over yours with a patience that made your chest ache. One hand cupped the back of your head. Another settled at your waist. The others remained braced, holding himself back, as if loving you required restraint more than conquest.
When you pulled away, he followed slightly.
You pressed a hand to his chest.
“No more. I am still irritated.”
“Of course.”
“And I still need better flowers.”
“You will have them.”
“And an outdoor painting pavilion.”
“You will have it.”
“And no one is allowed to interrupt me unless there is fire, war, or you have died.”
“If I die, I will return before interrupting you.”
“Good.”
He looked at you with that hopeless, smitten expression again.
You frowned.
“What now?”
“Nothing.”
“You look stupid.”
“I am happy.”
“Same thing.”
Sukuna laughed softly and settled beside you once more, feeding you another piece of fruit while you began ranting again—about pigments, servants, flowers, light, damp halls, boring court ladies, and how if one more person called your work pleasant, you would personally haunt their bloodline.
He listened to every word.
Nodded at all the right places.
Agreed when you insulted him.
Disagreed only when you called yourself unreasonable.
And when the sun sank lower, turning the garden gold, you leaned against his side as if it were an accident. As if your body had simply forgotten its own defiance.
Sukuna did not mention it.
He only adjusted one arm around you, quiet and careful, letting you pretend.
Because he knew you.
He knew your sharp edges were only doors with difficult locks. He knew your temper hid tenderness. He knew your solitude was sacred, not empty. He knew you loved in mutters, in insults, in sighs that became invitations, in kisses thrown like accusations.
And you knew him too.
You knew the King of Curses could level cities, but sat still for hours just to watch you paint.
You knew his hands had ended bloodlines, but peeled fruit for you in the garden.
You knew he was a monster.
Your monster.
Your husband.
Your ridiculous, affectionate, four-armed nuisance of a husband.
So when he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, you groaned as if deeply burdened.
“Sukuna.”
“Hm?”
“You are bothering me again.”
His thumb stroked once over your waist.
“Do you want me to stop?”
You stared out at the garden, lips pursed, trying very hard not to smile.
A moment passed.
Then another.
Finally, you sighed.
“No.”
Sukuna’s smile curved against your hair.
You pointed toward the far side of the garden.
“But tomorrow, I want spider lilies planted there.”
“It will be done.”
“And if they are the wrong red, I will blame you.”
“Of course.”
“And if you hover while I paint, I will throw something.”
“I look forward to it.”
You turned your head and glared at him.
He looked back at you like you had hung the stars.
Disgusting.
Wonderful.
Impossible.
You settled more comfortably against him.
“Useless beast,” you muttered.
Sukuna held you closer.
“My perfect queen,” he murmured.
And for once, beneath the persimmon tree, with fruit sweet on your tongue and his warmth at your side, you did not argue.
❝Freshman year, you wore a soft pink top and Sukuna Itadori—pink hair, crimson eyes, and a personality like a parking ticket—announced you “dressed like a baby,” then cornered you outside your dorm with a cigarette and flirting that should’ve required a permit. So you spent four years dodging her like she was a pop quiz with legs: different tables, different seats, scenic routes, full Olympic avoidance.
You graduated thinking you’d won.
Then Tokyo said, “Plot twist.”
Now Sukuna is your CEO, you’re the finance lead, and she’s still insatiable—materializing in your office like an HR violation, calling you “cry baby” like it’s on your ID, bribing you with your exact matcha order, and pressing her knee to yours like she’s negotiating a hostile takeover… of your attention.❞
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You went to work the way you always did—Monday through Friday, rain or shine, heartache or not.
You handled your shit.
You showed up early with your hair half-tamed and your mind already running numbers like prayers. You fixed mistakes without humiliating anyone. You coached the new hires with gentle patience. You moved through your department like the calm in the middle of a storm, the person people looked for when the spreadsheets started to bleed red.
You were good at this.
You were steady.
You were the woman your father had demanded you become and still—still— the moment Sukuna walked into your office, you turned into something else entirely.
It didn’t even make sense.
It wasn’t that she touched you. Half the time she didn’t. It wasn’t that she kissed you—because she couldn’t, not here, not with wandering eyes and HR policies that probably had sharp teeth.
It was simply her.
The shape of her in your doorway.
The sound of her shoes on your carpet.
The way her presence filled the room like heat climbing up your spine.
You’d be perfectly fine one second—answering an email, correcting a formula, reminding an analyst to triple-check their totals—then Sukuna would appear and suddenly you were breathless like you’d run a mile.
Your body betrayed you so easily now it almost made you angry.
You’d sit taller without thinking.
Your legs would shift, open a little, as if your body was making space for her before she even stepped fully inside. You’d have to cross your ankles like you were scolding yourself.
Sometimes you were already smiling before she spoke.
Sometimes you were already ruined before she said your name.
You didn’t know where it began.
You only knew it had changed.
One day she was a nuisance—loud in your space, impossible, arrogant, poking at you like a kid with a stick. The next day you wanted her so badly it made your teeth ache.
Love was supposed to be soft, wasn’t it?
Gentle.
Slow.
Not… this.
Not this hunger that built even when she was across the room. Not this ache that lived in the quiet spaces of your day. Not this helplessness—your mind still sharp and disciplined while your heart went feral.
You and Sukuna had been dating for a month.
Just a month.
A blink and yet your body reacted like it had been waiting years.
Your phone chimed with a Teams notification and you barely registered it because the door clicked open.
You looked up.
Sukuna stepped inside like she owned your air.
Black slacks today, fitted at the waist. A button-up rolled at the sleeves. Tattoos peeking out like secrets. Crimson eyes cutting straight through your composure.
She didn’t smile at first.
She never did.
She just looked at you with that familiar, lazy intensity—like she’d already decided you belonged to her and was simply waiting for your body to remember it too.
“Busy?” she asked, voice dry.
You swallowed.
Your throat was suddenly too tight.
You forced your hands to stay on the keyboard. “Always.” Sukuna hummed like that pleased her. She shut the door behind her—quiet, deliberate. Not locked. Not stupid. Just closed, like she needed the room to feel smaller.
Then she walked over and dropped into the chair opposite your desk, stretching her legs out like she was settling in for a show.
Your heartbeat kicked.
She hadn’t even touched you and you were already melting.
Sukuna lifted a brow, eyes narrowing slightly as if she could see what was happening in your head. “You’re staring,” she murmured.
You snapped your gaze back to your monitor, mortified. “I’m not.”
“You are,” she said.
You tried to keep your voice steady. “What do you want, Ms. Itadori?” Sukuna’s mouth twitched. She loved when you said her name like that—formal, tight, pretending you didn’t want her. “I wanted to see you,” she said simply.
Your chest tightened in that ridiculous way it always did when she said something blunt and honest. “That’s not a work reason,” you murmured.
Sukuna leaned back in the chair, arms crossing. “I’m the CEO. I don’t need a reason.” You glared at her over the top of your screen.
Sukuna’s eyes dragged over your face, slow and unhurried.
Then she reached into her pocket and set something on your desk.
A little wrapped candy. The kind you liked. The kind you’d once had in your bag during college finals.
You stared at it, stunned.
Sukuna spoke like she was bored. “You looked tense in the meeting.” You tried to speak. Failed.
Your lips parted, then closed again.
Sukuna watched you struggle with a faintly amused expression, then added, quieter, “Eat it.” Your cheeks warmed. “You’re… ridiculous.” Sukuna shrugged. “You’re welcome.” You unwrapped the candy with trembling fingers, popped it into your mouth, and tried to focus on your email again.
Sukuna stayed.
Sitting there. Watching. Answering her own emails on her phone like she didn’t have an entire executive office with a view.
Every once in a while her gaze would lift to you, lingering like a hand you couldn’t see and it made you feel insane.
Because you were doing budgets and forecasting and performance reviews—serious things, adult things—and all the while your body was singing stupid, needy songs because Sukuna was in the room.
Finally, you exhaled slowly and said, without looking at her, “You can’t keep coming in here.” Sukuna’s voice was lazy. “Why not?”
“Because,” you whispered, cheeks hot, “I can’t think.”
A pause.
Then Sukuna’s laugh—low, quiet, pleased—filled the space. “Oh,” she murmured. “That’s adorable.” You groaned. “Don’t.” Sukuna leaned forward slightly, elbows on her knees, voice dropping like a secret. “You did fine thinking before you started dating me.” You shot her a look. “I have always thought fine.” Sukuna’s eyes gleamed. “No. You were annoyed. All the time.”
“I am still annoyed.” Sukuna nodded like she agreed. “And now you’re also horny.” You made a choking sound and covered your face. “SUKUNA—” Sukuna just smirked, utterly unbothered, like she’d said the weather.
Then her phone buzzed. She glanced down, stood, and straightened her shirt like she was putting her CEO mask back on.
Before she left, she leaned in close enough that you could smell her—clean soap, faint cologne, something dangerous underneath.
Her voice brushed your ear. “Be good.” Your whole body went hot.
Sukuna walked out like she hadn’t just lit you on fire in your own office and you sat there, staring at your screen, heart banging like a fist against your ribs.
Ice cream on a platter, indeed.
That evening, you ended up on the couch—your couch, your soft blankets, your safe little home that had always felt like a world without men and without danger.
Shoko and Utahime were out—Utahime’s school friend had invited them to dinner, and Shoko had dramatically declared it “a double date with civilians.”
So it was just you and Sukuna.
Quiet.
Lamp light.
The soft hum of the city beyond your windows.
You sat with your legs draped over Sukuna’s lap, knees bent, toes tucked against her thigh. Sukuna looked too comfortable here now—leaned back, one arm along the cushion, the other hand resting on your calf and moving in slow, absent strokes.
Thumb drawing circles.
Palm warm.
Touch steady.
Like she was grounding herself through you.
You watched her for a while without speaking, studying the way her lashes sat against her cheek when she blinked, the way her mouth was always halfway to a smirk, like she was born with sarcasm in her bloodstream.
Then you asked the question that had been sitting in your chest for years. “Why did you pick on me in college?” Sukuna’s hand paused.
Just for a second.
She didn’t look up right away.
Her thumb resumed its slow circles like she needed something to do with her hands.
Finally, she said, “I didn’t pick on you.” You stared at her. “Sukuna.” Sukuna sighed through her nose like you were exhausting. “I teased you.”
“You called me a baby.” Sukuna’s mouth twitched. “You dressed like one.” You gasped, offended on principle. “I dressed nicely!” Sukuna glanced up at you then, eyes dark with quiet amusement. “You dressed soft.” The word landed strangely—less insult, more… confession.
You frowned, quieter. “That’s not an answer.” Sukuna looked away, jaw flexing like she didn’t enjoy being asked to explain herself. She was silent long enough that you thought she might dodge it. Then she said, blunt as always, “Because you made me nervous.” You blinked. “What?” Sukuna’s hand tightened slightly on your leg, then relaxed again, like she was irritated with herself for saying it at all.
“You were always… calm,” she said, as if the memory tasted sharp. “Even when people talked too loud. Even when you were stressed, you still moved like you weren’t trying to impress anyone.” You stared at her, stunned by the sincerity.
Sukuna continued, voice rougher now—not cruel, just honest. “You wrote in that notebook like you didn’t care who saw. You sat in the library like it belonged to you. You smiled at people even when you didn’t have to.” Her eyes lifted to yours again, and for a second, she looked younger.
Less CEO.
More girl.
“And you never looked at me the way everyone else did,” she added. “You didn’t flirt. You didn’t chase. You just… existed.” Your throat tightened.
Sukuna huffed softly, annoyed with herself. “I didn’t know what to do with that.”
“So you… bullied me?” you asked, voice small.
Sukuna scoffed. “I didn’t know how to be nice.” You softened. “Because of your dad?” Sukuna’s mouth hardened briefly. “He didn’t teach me softness,” she said. “He taught me results. And competition. And how to win.” Her thumb resumed circling your calf, slower now, more intimate. “You were soft,” Sukuna murmured. “And I wanted to touch it.”
Your breath caught.
Sukuna’s gaze held yours. “So I did the only thing I knew how to do.” You swallowed. “What?” Sukuna’s mouth twitched. “I provoked you.” Your cheeks warmed. “That’s… awful,” you whispered.
Sukuna shrugged like she couldn’t deny it. “Yeah.” You studied her face, then asked the quiet question beneath the first one. “Did you actually want me to avoid you?” Sukuna’s eyes narrowed slightly. “No,” she admitted. “Then why did you let me?” Sukuna’s hand stilled again, fingers pressing gently into your leg like she needed you there. “Because,” she said, and for once her voice wasn’t teasing at all, “if I pushed too hard… you would’ve hated me.”
Your chest ached. “And I couldn’t stand that,” she finished, voice low.
Silence settled between you—soft, heavy, honest.
You shifted closer, your toes brushing her hip. “Why didn’t you just… talk to me?” you whispered.
Sukuna looked up at you, and something vulnerable flickered behind her arrogance. “Because I didn’t think you’d want me,” she said plainly.
Your eyes stung.
Sukuna’s mouth tightened like she regretted saying it, then she tugged you closer by the back of your knee until your body slid nearer to her chest. “You want me now,” she added, voice returning to dry confidence like a shield. “So shut up.” You laughed through the emotion, breath shaking. “That’s not romantic.” Sukuna’s eyes gleamed. “I’m not romantic.” You leaned down and kissed her forehead softly—gentle, quiet, the way you’d kissed her cheek in the kitchen.
Sukuna grunted like she hated tenderness, but her hand slid up to your thigh and held you there, steady. “I’m glad you’re mine,” you whispered before you could stop yourself.
Sukuna’s eyes widened slightly.
Then her mouth curved—small, real. “Yeah,” she murmured. “Me too.” And she kept rubbing slow circles into your leg like she was trying to memorize the fact that you were here, that you weren’t running anymore, that you’d finally stopped avoiding her long enough for her to be gentle without fear.
You didn’t mean to fall asleep.
It just… happened the way comfort happens when you’re not bracing for it.
The conversation had softened, your limbs had gone heavy, the lamp light had turned the room honey-colored and safe. Somewhere along the way your head had tilted, your eyes had blinked too long, and Sukuna—who pretended she never needed rest—had melted too.
When you woke later, you wouldn’t remember deciding to stop talking.
You’d only remember the warmth.
Because sometime in the night, Sukuna ended up sprawled across you like she belonged there—her head tucked against your chest, cheek resting on your breasts, one arm thrown over your stomach, legs tangled with yours. She was heavy in that comforting way, like a warm blanket with a heartbeat. Your arms stayed around her without thinking, holding her close like your body had chosen this on instinct.
The apartment was quiet.
So quiet that when the front door clicked open hours later, it sounded like a secret.
Utahime and Shoko came in carefully, shoes slipped off, voices hushed.
They both froze in the hallway.
Shoko’s eyes widened like she’d stumbled upon an endangered species.
Utahime lifted a hand to her mouth, smiling softly, something tender in her expression.
Then Shoko did what Shoko always did.
She reached for her phone.
Utahime hissed, whispering, “Shoko—” Shoko whispered back, “She’s literally drooling on her. This is history.” Utahime, mortified and amused, whispered, “Be quiet.” Shoko crouched slightly like a paparazzi in a nature documentary, snapped a photo, then immediately clapped a hand over her own mouth to stifle a laugh.
Utahime grabbed her by the sleeve and yanked her down the hall before she could do anything worse.
Their bedroom door closed gently.
The apartment fell quiet again and you and Sukuna stayed tangled on the couch like nothing in the world could pull you apart.
The phone ringing at 2:00 a.m. felt like a siren in your skull.
You groaned, blinking slowly, arm tightening instinctively around the weight on your chest.
Sukuna made a sleepy, annoyed sound and burrowed closer like she was trying to escape the noise by crawling into you.
Your phone buzzed again.
You fumbled for it with clumsy fingers.
The screen lit up: Mom.
Your heart jolted awake instantly.
You answered, voice thick with sleep. “Mom…?” Her voice came fast, excited, trembling—half panic, half joy. “Baby, wake up. Satsuki is having the baby. We’re at the hospital. You need to come now.” You sat up so fast Sukuna slid a little, blinking groggily. “What—” Sukuna muttered, hair a mess, voice rough. “Why are you—”
“Satsuki’s having the baby,” you gasped, suddenly wide awake.
Sukuna blinked once, processing.
Then you saw it—the shift. The CEO snapped into place. The competent woman. The fixer. “Get dressed,” Sukuna said immediately, already pushing herself up off the couch.
You stared at her, overwhelmed. “Can you— can you drive me?” Sukuna was already standing, reaching for a hoodie like it was a uniform. “Yes.” She threw it on, tugged it down over her torso, then turned to you with a look that left no room for hesitation. “Cardigan,” she ordered, pointing vaguely toward the hall. “It’s cold at night.” You blinked. “You sound like my mom.” Sukuna’s eyes narrowed. “Move.”
You moved.
You hurried down the hall half-asleep, half-panicked, pulling on your cardigan, slipping into shoes with shaking hands. Sukuna grabbed her keys, grabbed your bag—like she’d done this a thousand times—and guided you out the door with a steady hand at your back. “Phone?” she asked. “In my hand.”
“Good.” You both moved fast—quiet feet down the steps, cool air biting your cheeks outside, Sukuna unlocking the car with a click that sounded sharp in the night.
She opened your door for you, like she always did now, and you slid into the passenger seat, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat.
Sukuna got in, started the engine, and the car came alive like a creature waking. “Address?” she asked, already pulling out.
You rattled it off.
Sukuna drove like urgency had a steering wheel—controlled but fast, eyes forward, jaw set, one hand occasionally flicking to adjust something without breaking rhythm. The city at night blurred past you, streetlights passing like beads on a string.
You watched her profile in the dark—pink hair shadowed, lashes low, expression focused and despite your panic, you felt something settle in your chest.
Because she was here.
She came.
She didn’t hesitate.
The hospital was bright and awake in a way that felt unnatural at 2 a.m.—fluorescent lights, quiet footsteps, nurses moving like ghosts between curtains. You rushed through the lobby with Sukuna close behind you, her hand hovering at your elbow like she was ready to catch you if your legs gave out.
Your mother spotted you first from the waiting area, standing immediately. Her eyes were red from happy tears and adrenaline. “Thank God,” she breathed, pulling you into a quick hug. “She’s doing great—she’s laughing, can you believe it?” You exhaled shakily. “Where’s Dad?”
“He’s with Kento,” your mom said quickly, then pointed down the hall. “Room 312.” You didn’t waste a second.
You hurried down the hallway, heart racing, cardigan clutched tight around you like armor. Sukuna followed behind you—silent, steady, a presence like a hand on your spine.
At the door, you hesitated only for a heartbeat.
Then you pushed it open.
Satsuki looked up immediately from the hospital bed, hair pulled back, cheeks flushed, eyes bright and she— She was giggling.
Actually giggling.
“Hi,” she said, voice delighted. “I’m so excited.” You rushed to her side, relief punching a laugh out of you. “You’re insane.” Satsuki grinned wide. “I got the epidural. I feel amazing.” Kento stood beside the bed, looking both stunned and deeply in love—like he’d been mentally preparing for battle and instead found a party.
He gave you a small, grateful smile. “She’s been making jokes for twenty minutes.” Satsuki waved a hand lazily. “I’m ready to get this big ass baby out.” You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and sat beside her, squeezing her hand. “Oh my God,” you murmured, voice thick. “You’re really doing it.” Satsuki’s eyes softened for a second. “Yeah. I am.” Then she looked past you—and her smirk returned instantly.
Because Sukuna was standing behind you.
Tall in the hospital light, hoodie on, hair slightly wild, eyes sharp and alert like she’d walked into the building ready to fight God himself.
Satsuki’s grin widened. “Well, well,” she said, voice amused. “The ripped pink-haired baddie came too.” You made a strangled sound. “Satsuki—” Sukuna’s mouth twitched like she was trying not to laugh.
Kento cleared his throat softly, looking embarrassed on your behalf.
Satsuki laughed again, unbothered. “I’m in labor, I can say whatever I want.” You exhaled, cheeks burning, and leaned down to kiss your sister’s forehead.“Okay,” you whispered. “Okay. I’m here.” Satsuki squeezed your hand, still smiling. “Good.”
Sukuna didn’t say much after you sat down beside Satsuki.
She hovered at first—quiet, watchful—like she was making sure you were steady, making sure the room felt safe around you. Then, without a word, she slipped out. You barely noticed at first because Satsuki was still riding the warm wave of the epidural, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, talking like labor was a comedy special she’d bought front-row tickets for.
“I feel like I could run a marathon,” she announced, laughing. “I’m going to name her Epidural.” Kento made a helpless sound. “Please don’t.” Your dad, standing near the window with his arms folded, muttered, “Don’t encourage her.” Your mom dabbed her eyes, smiling so hard it trembled and you—still waking up, still catching up—felt your body lagging behind your emotions. Like your heart had sprinted here but your limbs had crawled.
A nurse came in briefly to check something, moving with that brisk, practiced calm. She asked Satsuki questions, adjusted a monitor, and nodded like everything was normal.
Then Sukuna returned.
Two cups in hand. A small paper bag tucked under her arm. She moved through the room like she belonged there—like she’d been doing this for years instead of just a month. She set the food down, then slid your coffee toward you with quiet precision.
You looked at it and blinked.
Your typical breakfast order.
The one you always got when you were too tired to be brave. Sukuna leaned down, close enough that her hair brushed your temple.
She kissed your cheek—gentle, quick, soft enough that it felt like a secret. “You look sleepy,” she murmured, voice low and warm. “Drink.” Your breath caught—not because of the kiss, not even because of the coffee.
Because affection in public still startled you.
You nodded, cheeks warming. “Okay.” The nurse’s eyes flicked over the scene—over Sukuna’s mouth on your cheek, over your softened expression, over the simple tenderness of it.
Her face tightened in a way that wasn’t subtle.
As she turned to leave, she muttered something ugly under her breath— disgusting queers, sharp and poisonous, like she wanted to stain the air and walk away clean.
Your breath halted.
It felt like the room dropped two degrees.
You sat frozen, coffee trembling slightly in your hand.
Sukuna heard it.
You knew she did because her body went still for half a second—like a muscle locked. Her jaw tightened so faintly it was almost invisible, like a crack beneath glass.
But her hand stayed steady as she adjusted the bag on the table and when she looked at you again, she didn’t give you rage first.
She gave you softness. “Eat,” she said gently, as if refusing to let ugliness become the center of your night. “Okay?” You swallowed hard and nodded. “Okay.” Your dad, however, was not built for silent swallowing.
He had been quiet most of the night, practical and calm, but you watched his expression shift like a storm rolling in. His eyes narrowed, and his mouth hardened.
He set down his cup.
Then he excused himself with a tight, controlled politeness. “I’ll be right back,” he said.
You knew that voice.
The one he used when he was about to become immovable.
A moment passed.
Then another.
Your chest tightened, unease pooling.
You stood, setting your coffee down. “I’m going to check—” Sukuna’s hand brushed your wrist lightly. Not stopping you—just anchoring you.
Your mom looked worried. Kento’s brows lifted. Satsuki, blissfully comfortable, blinked at you. “Where are you going?”
“Just a second,” you told her, forcing a smile. “I’ll be back.” You stepped into the hallway and immediately saw your father near the nurses’ station—standing tall, shoulders squared, voice low but sharp enough to cut.
A doctor—likely the one scheduled to deliver Satsuki’s baby—stood facing him, expression attentive and slightly startled. “I want a new nurse,” your father was saying, tone firm. “Now.” The doctor blinked. “Sir, may I ask—”
“She used a slur about my daughter,” your father interrupted, and the words landed like a gavel. “In front of my family. In a room where my daughter is giving birth. That is not acceptable.” You hurried toward him, heart pounding. “Dad—” He turned slightly when he heard you, and his eyes softened for a fraction, but his voice didn’t. “No,” he said, like he’d already decided. “I’m not letting it go.” You swallowed, trying to calm him. “It’s fine—please, don’t make a scene.” Your father looked at you as if you’d said something impossible.
“It’s not fine,” he said, slow and certain. “No one will speak about my daughter that way.” Your throat tightened.
Because he didn’t say my daughter and her girlfriend like it was something shameful.
He said my daughter like the rest was irrelevant.
Like your dignity was non-negotiable.
Behind you, soft footsteps approached.
Sukuna stepped into the hallway.
She looked composed—hoodie on, hair slightly tousled, expression calm—but there was something in her eyes that said she’d heard the ugliness and filed it away, not as a wound, but as a problem to be handled.
The doctor’s gaze flicked to Sukuna—and then sharpened with recognition.
You saw it in the way his posture changed.
In the way his eyebrows lifted.
It wasn’t every day a twenty-six-year-old woman stood in a hospital corridor with that kind of quiet authority and a face that had appeared on business covers and magazine spreads. “Ms. Itadori,” the doctor said carefully.
Sukuna offered her hand with polite professionalism. “Doctor.”
They shook.
Sukuna’s grip was firm—steady, unflinching.
Then she spoke with a controlled softness that surprised you. Not dismissive. Not cold. Just… precise. “This moment is about Satsuki,” Sukuna said, voice even. “And the baby. That’s it.” The doctor nodded, recovering quickly. “Of course.” Your father’s jaw stayed tight, but you saw his respect flicker there—because Sukuna didn’t come out swinging.
She came out centered.
The doctor turned to the station, voice sharpening with authority. “We’ll be switching nurses immediately. And I want to remind everyone that professionalism is not optional. It is key to patient care.” The nurse who had said the slur stood nearby, arms folded, face sour.
She scoffed—like she was the victim of being corrected.
Then she walked off with an exaggerated roll of her eyes.
Your stomach churned.
You hadn’t expected it to feel like this.
You’d been naïve in your own way—too sheltered by your quiet life, too protected by your own avoidance. Shoko and Utahime always made it look effortless, like being a couple could be brushed off with humor and sharp comebacks and a shrug.
But you had never really known what it cost them.
What they swallowed.
What they carried home in their throats.
What it did to you when the world decided your love was a problem.
Sukuna’s hand found your lower back gently, thumb pressing once—grounding you.
Your father exhaled through his nose, then nodded once at the doctor. “Thank you.” The doctor nodded back. “I’m sorry that happened. It won’t happen again.” You stood there for a moment, heart heavy, eyes stinging with emotions you weren’t ready to name.
Sukuna’s voice came quiet by your ear. “You okay?” You nodded, even if it wasn’t fully true. “Yeah.” Sukuna didn’t push. She just guided you back toward the room like she was physically steering you away from the sharp edges.
When you reentered, Satsuki looked up immediately.
Her smile faded into concern. “What happened?” Your mom’s eyes widened. Kento’s expression tightened. Your father stepped in behind you, face still stern but calmer now.
You opened your mouth.
But Sukuna answered first.
She stepped closer to the bed, expression soft, voice gentle like she was choosing peace on purpose. “Everything is perfect,” Sukuna said with a small smile. “Focus on that big ass baby.” Satsuki blinked—then barked out a laugh. “Thank you.” Kento exhaled like he’d been holding his breath, relieved by the normalcy.
Your mom looked between you and Sukuna, eyes tender and wet and you sat back down beside Satsuki, taking her hand again, feeling Sukuna’s presence behind you like a steady wall.
When it was time for Satsuki to push, the room shifted into something sharper—focused, urgent, sacred. A new nurse came in with that brisk calm smile, and the doctor’s voice turned professional and quick. Machines beeped. Kento squeezed Satsuki’s hand. Your mother kissed Satsuki’s forehead like she was blessing her.
Then the staff began guiding everyone out. “Just Dad,” the doctor said gently, nodding toward Kento. “Husband stays.” Your mother looked like she wanted to argue on instinct—she had carried Satsuki once, after all—but she swallowed it down and nodded. You hugged your sister quickly, careful around the monitors. “You’ve got this,” you whispered.
Satsuki grinned, breathless with adrenaline and confidence. “I’m about to win the Olympics.” Kento made a sound that was half laugh, half sob. “Please focus.” Satsuki smirked, then looked at you and whispered loudly, “If I poop, no one tells me.”
“SAT—” you started, scandalized.
Sukuna huffed a laugh behind you. “You’re definitely sisters.” You squeezed Satsuki’s hand once more, then backed away as the staff ushered you all out.
The door closed and suddenly the hallway felt too bright.
Too cold.
Like you’d stepped out of a storm and realized how quiet the world was without it.
The waiting room held you like an old, tired cradle. Plastic chairs. Vending machines humming. A muted television playing a channel no one watched. The clock on the wall moving far too slowly for the amount of emotion in your chest.
Your father sat with his arms crossed, jaw tight—anger still simmering, though it had shifted into something protective and fierce. Your mother sat beside him with her hands clasped, eyes shining, whispering prayers under her breath like she couldn’t help it.
And you…
You leaned into Sukuna.
Your head rested on her shoulder, and Sukuna held your hand in both of hers—thumb brushing slow circles into your knuckles like she was keeping you tethered.
For a long moment, you didn’t speak.
You just listened to the sounds beyond the door—muffled voices, footsteps, the distant rise and fall of urgency.
Then you asked softly, so gently it barely felt like words. “Did that… comment upset you?” Sukuna’s thumb paused for a beat, then resumed. “No,” she said plainly.
You lifted your gaze slightly, searching her face.
Sukuna stared ahead at the wall like she was choosing her words carefully. “It didn’t upset me,” she repeated, quieter. “It upset me that it upset you.” Your throat tightened.
Sukuna’s jaw flexed once, restrained. “I don’t care what people think of me.” Her eyes flicked to you then—sharp, steady, almost tender beneath the bluntness. “But I care when it touches you.” You swallowed hard, blinking fast. Because that was the thing about love, you were learning— it made you vulnerable in places you didn’t expect.
Not because you were ashamed.
Because you suddenly had something precious to protect.
Your dad shifted in his chair and spoke up, voice firm like a closing argument. “I’m not apologizing for asking for a new nurse.” You looked at him and felt your eyes sting. You shook your head softly, smiling through the ache. “I won’t ask you to.” Your dad’s shoulders loosened a fraction, then he crossed his arms again, protective as a habit. “If I can adapt,” he said, blunt and certain, “everyone else can too.” You blinked.
Your father continued, eyes fixed forward, voice steady. “I grew up one way. Thought one way. And I still learned. I still changed.” He glanced at you then, and the look in his eyes made your chest ache. “I’d rather you be with a woman than a man you wouldn’t be happy with.” A laugh caught in your throat—soft, broken, grateful.
You leaned forward slightly, voice small like a child again. “Thank you… daddy.” The word slipped out before you could stop it, tender and old, and your father’s expression tightened like it hit him somewhere deep.
He cleared his throat and looked away, as if emotion embarrassed him.
Your mom reached over and patted your knee gently, her smile soft and wet. “I’m happy,” she whispered. “I’m happy you found someone who cares about you for you.” You sniffled, nodding, trying not to cry in public like you always did.
Sukuna’s hand tightened around yours.
The minutes stretched.
Then a nurse passed, then another.
The air felt heavy with waiting and finally— The door opened. The doctor stepped out with a wide, exhausted smile—one of those smiles that carried relief, pride, and joy all at once. “Everyone,” the doctor said warmly, “you can come in. The baby girl has arrived.” Your whole body jolted.
Your mother let out a shaky sob, immediately standing.
Your father stood too, posture rigid like he was bracing for the weight of new life.
Sukuna rose with you, hand still in yours. Shoko and Utahime stood quickly, faces bright with awe.
You walked down the hallway like your feet weren’t fully touching the floor. When you stepped into the room, everything felt different. The air smelled like antiseptic and something sweeter beneath it—newness, warmth, life. The lighting seemed softer. The world itself seemed to hush around the bed.
Satsuki lay back against her pillows, flushed and exhausted, hair damp, eyes shining like she’d been crying and laughing at the same time. Kento stood beside her, one hand on her shoulder, the other trembling faintly like he didn’t know where to put all his love.
And in Satsuki’s arms— A tiny bundle.
A baby so small and perfect it didn’t make sense.
Her face scrunched in that newborn way, mouth opening in a little protest, cheeks pink, fists clenched like she was already preparing to fight the world.
Your breath left you.
Your eyes filled instantly.
Satsuki looked up at you with a smile that was soft beneath her exhaustion. “She’s here,” she whispered, voice cracking.
You stepped closer, hands hovering like you were afraid to breathe too hard. “Oh my God,” you whispered, already crying.
Your mom sobbed openly now, touching Satsuki’s forehead, kissing her hair, whispering thanks to every god she knew.
Your father stood quietly at the foot of the bed, eyes shining in a way that made your throat tighten—like he was trying to be stoic and failing.
Satsuki’s lips quirked. “Want to meet her?” You nodded too fast. “Yes—yes.” Kento carefully helped adjust the baby, guiding the tiny bundle toward you with gentle hands.
Satsuki smiled at you, eyes bright. “This is Aiko,” she said softly. “Aiko Nanami.” The name sounded like a bell.
Beloved child.
Your sob broke a little louder. “Aiko,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Hi…” They placed her in your arms, and the moment her weight settled against you—warm, real, fragile—something in you cracked open completely.
You held her like she was made of light.
Her skin was impossibly soft. Her hair was dark and fine, barely there. Her tiny fingers curled and uncurling like she was dreaming with her hands. You looked down at her and tears slid down your cheeks without permission. “Oh, sweetheart,” you whispered, choking. “I’m your auntie. I’m your auntie, okay?” Aiko made a tiny noise—half sigh, half complaint—and your laugh came through tears.
Satsuki watched you with a tired, glowing smile. “You’re crying,” she teased weakly.
You sniffled, pressing a gentle kiss to Aiko’s forehead. “I can’t help it.” Behind you, Sukuna stood close—quiet, still, crimson eyes soft in a way you rarely saw. Her hand rested lightly at your back, warm and steady, like she was holding you up without making a show of it.
Your mom wiped her face, smiling through tears.
You rocked Aiko gently, sobbing softer now, whispering to her like she could understand. “I’m going to love you,” you promised, voice trembling. “I’m going to be here. I’m going to protect you.” Aiko’s tiny fist flexed.
And you looked up—at your sister, exhausted but radiant; at Kento, stunned by fatherhood; at your parents, transformed by new life; at your friends, smiling; and at Sukuna, standing quietly near you like she’d decided she belonged in this story too.
The world was messy.
Cruel sometimes.
Unfair.
But right here—right now—there was a baby girl in your arms, a name spoken into the air, and love crowded into the room so thick it felt like you could touch it.
you invited sylus as a plus one to your friend’s wedding, and sylus, finding it as an opportunity to be presented as your arm candy, accepted it without further hesitation.
the wedding was beautiful. sylus hands you a handkerchief while you teared up witnessing your friend recite her vows, feeling emotional as you can hear the raw emotion of love seep into her words.
you loved love, and you loved seeing your friends experience love with their partners, you knew they deserved.
the reception came, it was no less beautiful than the wedding, and sylus could already see the way your gaze fixates on the decor, how your eyes linger on the color palettes and tableware.
he didn’t need his aether core to know that you were already imagining your own wedding.
in the middle of the reception, you stood up as the women in the venue gathered in the middle, the bride turning her back on the crowd as the gentleman watched from the sidelines.
it was time for the infamous bouquet toss.
sylus stands to the side, a relaxed smile on his face as he watches you stand by the side, not really drawing much attention to yourself.
you were giggling with the other guests and bridesmaids, pointing playfully at each other, as if predicting who was most likely to get the bouquet.
a countdown was held. the bride tossed it behind her shoulder, you and the crowd jumped to reach out for the bouquet.
only for the bouquet to awkwardly dangle on the chandelier as it got stuck.
sylus sees as you immediately step to the side, letting the guests jump and grab at the bouquet that was hanging by the ribbon.
you met sylus’ eye, and smiled.
you gave him a shrug; you were not about to fight over a bouquet. your pride wouldn’t let you.
sylus, however had another idea.
he places the wine glass he sported on the table behind him before he casually walks to where you stood.
a yelp escapes your lips. you find your butt resting on sylus’s shoulder as he hoists you up, giving you a needed height boost.
the women were left shocked as he walked towards the chandelier, you immediately got the hint as you reached for the dangling bouquet with no difficulty.
he smirks, setting you down, planting a kiss on your temple before he steps back to where the other men watched with their jaws dropped. you couldn’t help the flustered giggle that leaves your lips as the women swarm over you, slapping your arm playfully while they whisper about your boyfriend.
turns out, you weren’t the only one imagining a wedding in your head. truthfully, sylus was already planning to propose whether or not you won the bouquet toss.
though, getting the blessing of tradition was definitely a welcomed plus.
inspired by that one tiktok i saw that went exactly like this <3 (just the reception bit)
to the one who dares deny me her presence, you left without permission. return at once.
your lord, ryomen sukuna.
the third letter, arrives in a much longer scroll.
how troublesome. you forget yourself, woman. there is no place you may go that is beyond my reach. had i wished it, you would have been returned to my side before nightfall. consider it generosity that you were not. do not ignore my scrolls.
your lord, ryomen.
the fourth letter,
since i cannot imagine there is much in those lands to interest you, i can only suppose your continued absence is due to your ever prolonging distaste with me.
i urge you: come be angry at a nearer distance.
your husband, R.S.
the fifth letter,
you are in no mood for games. very well. i am in no mood for them, either.
let me say it outright: there are moments brief, and increasingly frequent in which i reach for you without thought. this displeases me, i am not accustomed to such absence from you, nor restraint.
you have forced both upon me.
come home and shout at me. come home and fight with me. come home and break my heart, if you must. it has become yours only to break. just come home.
your husband, sukuna.
the next letter,
not even responding to my missives is ridiculous and beneath you and i hate it.
atleast inform me of your health.
ryomen sukuna
and then finally, your reply,
stop writing to me, at once. my wedded lord you have trespassed much and caused me such nuisance, it is quite enough now.
i am well. but do not pretend as if you may not already know that. you think i am not aware of my new lady’s maid keeping an eye on me, certainly appointed to report back to you?
consider it my generosity that i let her stay, and consider it my ignorance towards your repetitive letters for my lack of response.
if i receive any such scroll from you, i shall burn it.
signed, yours.
and his response,
surely if your lovely eyes may not grace my lowly epistles, then i shall speak freely.
to my most willful wife, you command me to cease, and yet you write at length. i had not realized i occupied you so thoroughly. as for your lady’s maid, you give me too much credit. if she watches you, it is because you are worth watching. i would hardly entrust such a task to another. although i cannot speak for what ways uraume employs to inform me on your health..
i have been told it is unbecoming to repeat oneself so, i will not ask you to return again. you may remain where you are, in whatever peace you have convinced yourself you prefer. i will not contest it.
and yet, i find myself wondering: why you will not come back of your own accord. have you no consideration, for your neglected husband?
the hand you force, your husband.
to my most theatric husband, you mistake response for preoccupation. do not flatter yourself, i write only to correct what you insist on misunderstanding.
as for being “worth watching,” you dress surveillance in pretty language, you always had a knack for that. for such sweet talk will not work on me, do not expect gratitude for it.
if your husband is neglected, perhaps he should consider why.
signed, your wife, unfortunately.
to my most contrary wife, “unfortunately,” and yet you take such care to sign it. i wonder if your hand hesitated at all.
as for your refusal of gratitude, keep it, i did not ask for it. you suggest your husband reflect on his neglect. i have. thoroughly. i apologize for everything end this torment for me wife, for i can bear it no longer.
you insist my words hold no effect on you now. how curious, has distance made you bold, or merely forgetful? i recall a time not long past, when your resolve was far less reliable. how easily it would slip from you, how quickly your protests would soften when i would indulge you, a little more closely. 𓀐𓂸
have you truly forgotten? or are you simply daring me to remind you?
very well. do not worry, i will remind you, not behind these papers this time. consider that a courtesy, one last chance to brace yourself or do you prefer to test me?
i would find it entertaining, either way.
your lord and husband, R.S.
my lord, you are most unfair!
do not be naughty, ryomen. i warn you, what you speak of this “reminder” it is highly improper. and what if someone else were to see it? consider your poor wife’s reputation!
your teasing is relentless, and i am most vexed. you threaten of your arrival, yet remain absent, perhaps one day, your threats will find action..though i dare not hope it too loudly.
if you intend to test my resolve, i suggest you waste no more time. come, then, and take me with you, lest i change my mind.
apology accepted, your wife.
a shorter note, in refined handwriting,
lord ryomen sukuna will be arriving soon.
his subject, uraume.
firefly; this is probably my first fic where i have worked SO hard on formatting it, i hope you guys enjoy ❀ུ͏
inspo: by cardan’s letters to jude from the folk of the air series.
annaxmalina
turnnoffyourmind
baratheonpilled
yousharknotpass
