suku-enthusiasts - Tumblr blog

suku-enthusiasts · 5 hours ago

Text

chapter four || blow ups - c. kamo

❛ ❜ Choso Kamo x f!reader (on going)

❝ Kamo “Choso,” a guarded boxer, meets a soft-spoken baker when he starts daily visits after training. Their connection grows slowly—social media follow, sweet diner dates, shared springtime moments—but love comes through quiet acts: tending wounds, pearl necklaces, building a home together. Challenges follow—a big match, media attention, and legal fights,—yet their bond deepens through intimacy, honest conversations under starry nights, and passionate reunions after weeks apart. As they balance family, business, and future plans, Choso sheds his tough exterior and the baker learns to trust in love worth fighting for.❞

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety.

Uploads every Tuesday

main masterlist | series masterlist | previous

Dinner was easy in a way that surprised him. It shouldn’t have been. Choso wasn’t used to easy. He was used to long silences that felt sharp instead of comfortable, to conversations where people waited for him to say the wrong thing, to the quiet judgment that came with the scars on his knuckles and the bruises that never really healed. But here — in your small, warm apartment with the smell of garlic and tomatoes lingering in the air, with the soft light of the old lamp casting a glow over your hair — it felt different.

He ate slowly, more for the company than the food, watching the way you talked with your hands, the way your laugh curled at the edges when you told stories about bakery disasters — dough that didn’t rise, burnt croissants, the one time you locked yourself in the walk-in freezer for an hour before your brother found you. Choso didn’t say much. He didn’t have to. You filled the space without crowding it, and every so often, when you laughed a little too hard or smiled a little too big, he caught himself smiling too.

After dinner, you carried the plates to the sink, and Choso followed you, leaning his hip against the counter as you rinsed them, the water running quietly between you. "You know," you said, glancing up at him with a small smile, "you're allowed to relax." He snorted softly. "Don't know how." You bumped his arm with your shoulder, teasing but gentle. "You're learning." He watched you for a moment longer, heart heavy in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with the way you looked at him — like you saw him. Like you weren't trying to fix him or change him or run from the sharp edges. You just saw him, and somehow, you still stayed.

He opened his mouth to say something — he wasn’t even sure what — when his phone buzzed on the counter. Choso frowned, leaning over to check the screen. His manager’s name flashed across the display: Kenji. He let it buzz once. Twice. You glanced at him, a question in your eyes, but didn’t push. With a grunt, Choso picked it up and answered, pressing it to his ear.

“Yeah.”

Your back was to him now as you wiped down the counter, pretending not to listen, but he could feel the way the air shifted around you — quieter, more alert. Choso’s face hardened as he listened, jaw tightening. “No,” he said sharply. “I already told you — not interested.” There was a pause — Kenji’s voice, fast and insistent, bleeding through the small apartment. Choso’s fingers drummed against the counter, the tight, agitated rhythm giving away more than his voice did.

“You gotta be kidding me,” he muttered, turning away from you, pacing a few steps toward the window like he could outwalk the conversation. Kenji kept talking — louder, more aggressive — and Choso’s shoulders tensed, the muscles under his hoodie bunching tight. “What the fuck does Gucci need me for?” he snapped, his voice rising, sharp in the quiet of the apartment. “I’m not a model. I’m not some pretty face they can slap on a billboard.” You stopped wiping the counter, watching him now, still and careful. Another pause. Another insistent argument through the phone.

Choso raked a hand through his hair, the tie snapping loose, strands falling around his face in a messy halo.

“They don’t give a shit about me,” he said, voice rough. “They don’t care who I am. They just want a look. A story.”

He paced, breathing harder now, phone still pressed tight to his ear. “I said no. What part of no—”

He broke off, jaw tight, listening to whatever Kenji was saying on the other end. His hand dropped to his side, clenching into a fist, the other scrubbing hard over his face. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, but no less bitter. “It’s in the contract,” he muttered. “Of course it is.”

He hung up then, without a word, the phone hitting the counter with a dull, angry thud. He stood there, breathing hard, back tense, the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. His fists were clenched at his sides, and for a long moment, he didn’t move. You could feel the anger radiating off him — not the reckless, dangerous kind. The kind that came from helplessness. From being trapped, and even though your chest tightened, even though every instinct told you to tread carefully, you didn’t flinch.

You crossed the room quietly, your socks silent on the wood floor, and stopped just behind him. You didn’t speak. You didn’t ask. You just wrapped your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek lightly to his back, and held him.

Choso stood there, breathing slow and ragged, your arms wrapped tight around his waist, your body pressed gently to his back. The fight had drained out of him — not all at once, not dramatically — but in pieces. The sharp edges dulled, the anger softened, the weight of everything he carried shifting just enough that he could feel the warmth of you behind him. He didn’t move for a long time, his hands resting heavy over yours, his fingers brushing absently across your knuckles like he didn’t know what else to do with them, like he was afraid to break the moment by holding on too tight.

The apartment was quiet except for the sound of his breathing, yours quieter still, the slow thud of your hearts filling up the small space. Outside, the city moved on — cars in the distance, the occasional echo of voices on the street — but up here, it was just you and him, suspended in something that felt fragile but real. You didn’t speak, didn’t press him to turn around, to look at you. You just stayed, steady and sure, your arms tightening slightly around him every time his breathing hitched, every time his muscles tensed like he might pull away. You wanted him to know he didn’t have to. That he could stay. That it was safe here.

It took a while — longer than you thought it might — but slowly, slowly, Choso shifted. He lifted one of your hands from his stomach, his fingers lacing through yours with a care so unfamiliar, so clumsy and deliberate, it made your chest ache. He turned, slow and heavy, and you let your arms fall back, giving him space. When he faced you, he was close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin, smell the clean soap clinging to his hoodie, the faint coppery scent of the gym still lingering underneath. His hair was messy, falling loose around his face, strands brushing his cheekbones. His dark eyes — so often hooded and guarded — were open now, raw and vulnerable in a way that made your breath catch.

Choso didn’t speak. He just stood there, staring at you like he wasn’t sure if you were real. His gaze dropped, slowly, dragging over your face — the curve of your mouth, the soft flush still high on your cheeks, the loose, messy fall of your hair. His jaw worked, a muscle ticking, like there were words caught somewhere between his ribs that he didn’t know how to free. You didn’t rush him.

You stood there, open and waiting, your hands loosely folded in front of you, giving him the choice to reach, to stay, to leave — whatever he needed, and maybe it was that — the not asking, the not pushing — that finally broke through.

Choso stepped closer, slow and heavy, the toes of his boots brushing yours. His hand lifted, hesitant, pausing halfway like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you. You met him halfway, tilting your chin up, letting your gaze hold his, steady and soft. He touched your cheek, finally, the backs of his fingers rough against your skin. Not a caress — just a touch, like he needed to make sure you were real, that you weren’t going to dissolve if he pressed too hard. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, feather-light, and you leaned into it, just slightly, a soft breath escaping you.

“You’re not scared of me,” he said, voice low and rough, the words heavy with disbelief and something that sounded almost like awe. You shook your head slowly, the movement brushing your cheek against his hand. “No.” His thumb traced the line of your jaw, slow, in awe. “I should scare you,” he said, even softer, like he hated admitting it.

“You don’t,” you whispered, and you saw the way his throat worked, the way his hand trembled just slightly against your skin. Choso lowered his head, the tip of his nose brushing yours, and you felt the breath he exhaled — shaky, uneven — fan across your lips. He didn’t kiss you right away. He just breathed you in, his forehead pressing lightly to yours, his hand moving to cup your jaw fully now, rough palm cradling you like you were something breakable. His other hand hovered at your waist, fingers twitching like he wanted to pull you closer but didn’t dare. You could have closed the distance. Could have leaned up on your toes and pressed your mouth to his, simple and easy.

But you waited.

You let him choose.

And he did.

Slow, careful, like he was afraid he’d ruin it if he moved too fast, Choso closed the last inch between you, his mouth brushing yours in a kiss that was more breath than contact at first. A hesitation. A question. You answered by tilting your chin up, pressing just a little closer, your fingers finding the hem of his hoodie, clutching lightly. The kiss deepened slowly — not frantic, not demanding — but steady, building in quiet layers. His lips were soft, warm, a little chapped, moving against yours like he was learning you in pieces, savoring the way you fit against him. When he finally pulled back, it was only by a breath, his forehead still resting against yours. “You’re too good for me,” he murmured, the words so raw they almost didn’t sound like him. You smiled, small and sure, fingers curling tighter into the fabric of his hoodie. “You’re wrong,” you whispered. He exhaled shakily, his thumb stroking slow circles against your jaw. For a moment, neither of you moved, and even though there was still a heaviness in his shoulders, still a sadness in the way he held you — it wasn’t hopeless.

It was something quieter. Something that felt a lot like hope. You stood there together in the quiet, in the soft lamplight, in the stillness of a world you’d made just for each other — a world that, for once, he didn’t feel the need to fight against. For the first time in a long, long time, Choso thought maybe he didn’t have to be afraid of being seen.

Not when it was you doing the looking.

The night of the fight, your hands wouldn’t stop shaking. You stood in the line winding around the side of the old arena, the low buzz of voices, the smell of cheap food and sweat filling the air. The crowd was restless — buzzing with anticipation, thick with the kind of energy that made your skin crawl. Men in leather jackets and steel-toed boots, women with loud laughs and sharper smiles. It wasn’t your world. Not even close.

But you were here anyway. For him.

Inside, the arena was even worse — too loud, too bright, the sharp metallic tang of blood and old adrenaline saturating the air. You found your seat toward the front — not too close, but close enough that you could see the cage, the gleaming metal bars catching the harsh overhead lights. You sat, hands tight in your lap, heart hammering against your ribs. Choso was already in the ring. He stood in one corner, shoulders loose, head down, hoodie half-zipped, hands taped tight. His team fussed around him — shouting last-minute instructions, slapping his back — but he barely reacted. He stood still, heavy and coiled like a spring, his dark hair tied back, face blank. Not the Choso you knew.

No — this was someone else. Someone harder. Sharper.

The announcer’s voice echoed through the speakers, the crowd roaring in response, but it all blurred together for you.

When Choso stepped forward, shrugging out of his hoodie, the tattoos on his arms gleamed under the lights, black and brutal. His body was a map of old scars and new bruises, and even from where you sat, you could see how tight his jaw was, how hard his eyes had gone. You barely breathed as the fight started.

It was fast — brutal — a blur of fists and elbows, bodies colliding against the cage. Choso was a machine, all sharp edges and ruthless precision. He moved like he was built for this — like violence lived under his skin, coiled tight and waiting. You flinched every time his fist connected — sharp, wet impacts that echoed across the arena. His opponent was fast, good, but Choso was better — relentless, grinding him down with every blow, every ruthless advance. There was no mercy in it. No hesitation. Just Choso, cold and brutal, doing what he had to do.

It didn’t take long. The final blow was vicious — a sharp left hook that sent the other man crumpling to the mat, blood splattering across the canvas. The crowd roared. You stayed frozen, breath caught somewhere between your chest and throat. Choso stood over his opponent for a beat longer, chest heaving, face still blank. Then he stepped back, lifting his bruised fists mechanically when the ref grabbed his arm and declared him the winner. The announcer shouted, the crowd screamed, but Choso barely reacted. No smile. No raised fists. No celebration. Just that same blank stare.

You saw it then — clearer than you ever had before. He hated this. Even with the win, even with the cheers, Choso stood there like he couldn’t feel a thing. Like he was just a body in a cage, doing what he had to do to survive. Obligation. Not passion.

You sat frozen as he left the ring, his team swarming him — pats on the back, towels thrown over his shoulders. He moved through them like a ghost, not really seeing any of it. When his dark eyes found yours in the crowd, the smallest crack broke across his face — something soft and fleeting — and then it was gone.

You didn’t say much when you met him outside the arena. He was quiet, hoodie pulled low over his face, duffel slung over one shoulder. His hands were taped still, knuckles split and raw, dried blood crusted at the edges. He didn’t speak, and neither did you — just slid into the passenger seat of your car, slumping low. You drove back to the apartment in silence. When you got home, you unlocked the door, flipping on the lamp, letting the soft, warm light spill across the space. Choso stood in the doorway for a second, heavy and still, then toed off his boots and stepped inside.

“Go shower,” you said, voice soft but certain. He hesitated, jaw ticking — like he didn’t know how to accept something so small — and then nodded, disappearing down the hall to the bathroom. You moved around the apartment quietly while he was gone — fetching the small first aid kit from under the sink, filling a glass of water, pulling a clean towel from the closet. When Choso came back, hair damp and curling at the ends, fresh hoodie pulled over his broad shoulders, he looked... smaller, somehow. Calmer. But still distant, still too quiet. You sat on the couch, patting the spot next to you.

“Come here.” He hesitated again, then crossed the room slowly, sitting down with a grunt. His legs spread wide, shoulders hunched slightly, like he was trying to make himself smaller and failing. You reached for his hands, gently pulling one into your lap. His knuckles were bruised and raw, the skin split in places, crusted blood staining the tape. He watched you quietly as you peeled it away, careful not to pull too hard. You worked slowly, dabbing antiseptic against the cuts, smoothing bandages over the worst of them. Choso didn’t flinch. Didn’t even breathe hard. Just sat there, letting you take care of him like he didn’t know what to do with it. When you finished, you set the first aid kit aside and curled your fingers lightly around his wrist, thumb brushing over the thick pulse there.

He was still watching you — quiet, unreadable.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself, and spoke — soft, but sure. “I hated watching that,” you admitted, voice low. “Not because you’re bad at it. You’re good — too good.” Choso’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing. “I hated it because I could see it in your face. You don’t love it.” You swallowed, thumb stroking slow, soothing circles against his skin. “You do it because you have to.” His jaw tightened, throat working around words he couldn’t seem to say.

“You fight because you feel like you don’t have a choice,” you said, softer now. “Because it’s the only thing the world’s ever let you be good at.” You shifted closer, your knee brushing his. “But that’s not all you are, Choso.”

His hand flexed under yours, rough fingers twitching like he wanted to grab you but wasn’t sure how. “You’re more than fists and fights and bruises. You’re more than what they want to make you into.” You let the words settle between you, your heart hammering in your chest. When he still didn’t speak, you moved carefully, sliding your hand up from his wrist, along the rough line of his forearm, until you reached his jaw. His eyes fluttered closed at the touch, a soft breath leaving him. “I have feelings for you,” you said, voice barely more than a whisper now. “I don’t care about the fights. I don’t care about the noise. I just... I care about you.”

His eyes opened, dark and shining, the weight of them settling heavy on you. Slowly, carefully, he turned his face into your palm, pressing a rough kiss to the center of it. You felt it like a brand — warm, aching, real. When he looked at you again, the hardness in his face had cracked wide open, and what you saw there made your chest ache — a softness he tried so hard to hide, a hunger for something he didn’t know how to ask for.

Choso didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to. He leaned forward, slow and deliberate, pressing his forehead to yours, his hand curling around the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, and you stayed like that — quiet, steady, together — as the world outside spun on without you.

The park was warm with the promise of spring. The grass was a deep, lush green, thick and soft underfoot, dotted with little patches of wildflowers that swayed in the gentle breeze. The air smelled clean — fresh-cut grass, distant lilacs, the faintest trace of earth still damp from the morning dew. The sun hung high in a clear blue sky, casting long, lazy shadows that danced over the paths and picnic blankets scattered across the open lawns.

You tugged the edges of your light, flowing maxi dress as you walked beside Choso, the hem brushing against your ankles, catching on the occasional blade of grass. It was the kind of dress that felt like spring itself — soft fabric in muted florals, fitted at the waist and loose around your hips, swishing with every step. Your hair was loose around your shoulders, catching the light, and your cheeks were already pink from the sun.

Choso walked next to you, quiet as usual, but different now. Softer. Calmer. He wore a plain white t-shirt that clung slightly to the strong lines of his chest and arms, the sleeves tight around his biceps, a pair of worn black jeans that sat low on his hips. His boots were scuffed, and his hair was loose today, falling in soft, messy strands around his face, brushing his jaw whenever the breeze picked up. You found a spot under a pecan tree — a little quieter, a little more private — and Choso dropped down onto the grass without hesitation, leaning back on his elbows, legs stretched out in front of him. You sank down beside him, tucking your legs under you, smoothing your dress as you sat.

For a while, you didn’t talk. You didn’t need to. You just sat there, letting the warmth of the afternoon settle into your bones, letting the soft sounds of the park — the distant laughter of kids, the occasional bark of a dog, the low hum of conversation — fill the space between you. Choso shifted slightly, one arm brushing against yours, and you turned to look at him. He was already watching you — not in the heavy, guarded way he had when you first met, but in that slow, steady way he did now, like he was memorizing the way the light played on your hair, the way your cheeks flushed pink, the way your dress pooled around you like you belonged there.

“Got something for you,” he said, voice low. You blinked, surprised, as he reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small box — not flashy, not fancy, just simple black velvet. He turned it over in his palm once, like he was second-guessing himself, then held it out to you. You took it carefully, heart already racing. Inside, nestled against the dark velvet, was a delicate necklace — a single, small pearl on a fine gold chain, simple and elegant.

You stared at it, breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat. “It’s not much,” Choso said, voice rougher now, like he was fighting the urge to pull back, to take it away before you could say anything. “But... made me think of you.”

You swallowed, the lump in your throat making it hard to breathe. “It’s beautiful,” you said softly, fingers brushing lightly over the pearl. Choso shifted, sitting up straighter, his knees brushing yours. He looked nervous — that quiet kind of nervous he always got when he was about to say something real. He reached out, took the necklace from the box, the chain glinting in the sunlight as he let it drape across his knuckles. “Turn around,” he said, voice quieter now.

You obeyed, lifting your hair away from your neck as he moved behind you. His fingers were warm and careful as he clasped the chain, letting the pearl rest just at the hollow of your throat. When you turned back to face him, his hand lingered for a moment, fingers brushing lightly against your skin. He sat back, hands resting on his thighs, and stared at you.

“Looks good on you,” he murmured. You smiled — wide and real, cheeks burning — and tucked the pearl lightly between your fingers, feeling the weight of it, small and perfect. Choso shifted again, like he was gathering himself, and then — finally — he spoke. “I been thinkin’ about this for a while,” he said, voice low but steady now. “About you. About us.” You blinked, heart pounding, but stayed quiet. “I don’t do this kinda thing,” he continued, frowning slightly, like he hated how clumsy the words felt in his mouth. “Never really saw the point before.” He looked at you then, and there was something in his eyes — something soft, something steady — that made your chest ache.

“But I don’t wanna keep actin’ like you’re just... someone I see sometimes. You’re more than that.” Your breath caught.

He shifted closer, his hand brushing lightly against your knee. “I want you to be my girlfriend,” he said, voice low but firm. “If you’ll have me.” You stared at him, heart thudding so hard you thought he might hear it. For a moment, you couldn’t speak — couldn’t even breathe, and then you smiled — big and blushing, eyes bright — and nodded. “Yes,” you whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I’d love to.”

Something in Choso’s face cracked wide open at your words — a slow, soft smile breaking across his mouth, small but real, the kind of smile you’d only ever seen on him when he was truly at peace. You pulled your phone out, grinning as you leaned into him, lifting it up for a selfie. Choso shifted closer without hesitation, one arm slinging loosely around your waist, his hand resting lightly on your hip. You snapped the photo — you with your wide, bright smile, cheeks flushed pink, hair tumbling over your shoulders, the delicate pearl at your throat catching the light — and Choso beside you, leaning in close, a soft, rare smile on his face, his dark eyes warm.

You stared at the photo for a moment after, heart full. It wasn’t perfect — the light was a little too harsh, the breeze caught a few strands of your hair across your face — but it didn’t matter. It was real. You turned to him, sliding your phone into your lap, and leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, just at the corner of his mouth. Choso turned his head slightly, catching your eyes, and for a moment, neither of you moved. You didn’t have to. The world kept spinning, the sun kept shining, but for you — for him — it was enough just to be. Here. Together.

After a while, the buzz of the park faded into the background — the laughter of children chasing soccer balls, the distant bark of a dog, the quiet hum of conversations drifting on the breeze. You shifted, tugging gently on Choso’s hand, and he followed you down without protest, both of you sprawling back onto the grass. The sun was warm overhead, filtering through the leaves above, casting dappled shadows across your skin and the light fabric of your dress. Choso lied beside you, one hand tucked under his head, the other tangled loosely with yours, his thumb brushing slow, lazy circles against your palm. His white t-shirt stretched taut across his chest, the cotton thin enough that you could see the faint outlines of old scars and muscle underneath. He looked more at ease here than he ever did anywhere else — the tension gone from his shoulders, the sharp lines of his face softened by the way he watched the sky. You turned your head to look at him, chin tilted slightly.

“What are you thinking about?” you asked, voice low, carrying easily in the quiet. Choso huffed a breath — not a laugh, but close — and turned his head to meet your gaze. “You,” he said simply. You smiled, shy but sure, the kind of smile you didn’t have to hide with him anymore. He stared at you for a moment longer, dark eyes steady, and then his thumb brushed higher, skimming the delicate chain of the necklace he’d given you, the pearl catching the sunlight.

“You’re good for me,” he said, voice rough, almost like it hurt him to admit it. You squeezed his hand, your thumb brushing over the back of his knuckles where the bruises were already beginning to darken. “You’re good for me too,” you murmured. You lied there a while longer, hands tangled, the quiet wrapping around you like something sacred, something real.

It was perfect.

Until your phone buzzed.

You startled slightly, blinking as you fished it out of the folds of your dress. Choso watched you, curious but unconcerned, as you squinted at the screen.

Dad.

Your heart skipped — not in fear, but that strange, familiar flutter of oh no, what does he know?. You bit your lip, glancing at Choso, and sat up, brushing grass from your dress as you answered. “Hey, Dad.” Choso stayed lying back in the grass, one hand behind his head, but his eyes flicked to you, sharp and attentive now. “Hey, sweetheart,” your father’s voice came through, warm but firm. “What are you up to?” You smiled, glancing down at Choso. “I’m at the park.” There was a pause — not long, but long enough to make your stomach tighten.

“Your brothers came by the house yesterday,” your dad said, voice casual in a way that wasn’t really casual at all. “Told your mother and me a little about this guy you’ve been spending time with.” You winced, heart dropping slightly.

“They’re just worried,” you said quickly, picking at the hem of your dress. “But it’s not what they think. He’s... he’s really good to me.” There was another pause. You could picture your dad sitting at the kitchen table, arms crossed, frowning thoughtfully. “Well,” he said, slower now. “If you’re serious about him, I think it’s about time your mother and I meet him.” You swallowed, glancing nervously at Choso. He was still watching you — not tense, not worried, just waiting.

“I think that’s fair,” you said carefully. “I can talk to him.”

“Good,” your dad said, voice softening a little. “We just want to know the man our daughter’s spending so much time with. You know how we are.” You smiled, feeling the tightness in your chest ease a little. “Yeah. I know.”

“Alright. You set it up. Let me know when.”

“I will.”

“Love you, kiddo.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

You hung up, setting the phone carefully in your lap, exhaling slowly. Choso sat up then, brushing grass from his jeans, brows lifted in silent question. You smiled, soft but a little nervous. “So,” you said, voice light. “That was my dad.” Choso smirked faintly, nudging your knee with his. “Yeah? What’s he want?” You bit your lip, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “He wants to meet you.” Choso blinked, the smirk dropping from his face. You rushed to fill the space, reaching out to brush your fingers lightly over his hand.

“You don’t have to say yes right now. I can talk to them, set something up later. They’re just... protective.” Choso stared at you for a moment, expression unreadable, and you felt your stomach twist, afraid maybe it was too much too soon. But then he sighed, slow and deep, and turned his hand over, linking his fingers with yours again. “They should know who’s takin’ care of their daughter,” he said, voice low but sure. You smiled, heart tight and full all at once. Choso squeezed your hand, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Set it up,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

And just like that — in the warm spring afternoon, with the grass cool beneath you and the sky wide and endless overhead — you realized you weren’t scared anymore. Not of the future. Not with him. Not together.

#anime fanfic #fanfiction #choso jjk #choso #jujutsu kaisen choso #choso kamo smut #choso smut #choso kamo #jjk choso #kamo choso #choso x reader #choso kamo series

13 notes · View notes

suku-enthusiasts · 7 hours ago

Text

knocked out up!

getting back shots in someone else's bed post-breakup is fun - until you have a bump to show for it a few months later

pairing: baby daddy!Sukuna x f!Reader

content: mdni, pregnancy, friends to strangers to coparents, messy relationship history, ex-bf!Gojo, leaving a toxic relationship, one night stand, oral (f! receiving), face sitting, reverse cowgirl, multiple positions + povs, sukuna is obsessed, reader stands up for herself, pining, more tags to be added

index

mistake | first taste

the way things are | criminal

honey | across the universe

comment to be added to tags | dividers by @bronzewasp

3K notes · View notes

suku-enthusiasts · 1 day ago

Text

Chapter Thirteen || city travels - s. ryomen

❛ ❜ Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader (on going)

❝ in the lands of gods and monsters, she was an angel, living with the King of Curses-

Sukuna Ryomen Itadori was a man of many things, but before he became the cursed monster, he was a kind husband, who was sarcastic, always loving in his words, and loves his wife dearly. After a day of work, he returns home early, to find his wife brutally murdered in the home he built for the two of them. Sukun

a was unaware of the power he held, but when it unleashed, he became something his wife never thought she could imagine. 10 years pass, as Sukuna visits his wife's grave, the same spot he buried her all those years ago, something was different, something touching his face as he awoke, could this be real?❞

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety. death. graphic scenes

Word count ; 5.9k

main masterlist | series masterlist

You stood in the nursery, your fingers brushing over Aiyumi’s soft pink curls as she cooed in her crib, clutching her favorite stuffed rabbit. Her tiny eyes blinked up at you with curiosity, unaware of the ache growing in your chest. Just four days. Only four days.

Behind you, Sukuna leaned against the doorway, arms folded, watching with a complicated softness in his eyes. “She’ll be just fine,” he said calmly, though even his voice had a rare, gentle edge. “Uraume is practically her second parent, your mother could scale mountains in her sleep, and your father—well, I trust he won’t let anyone within five feet of her.” You sighed, pressing a final kiss to Aiyumi’s forehead before tucking the blanket closer to her round cheeks. “I know... I just haven’t spent a single night away from her since she was born.” He crossed the room in two strides, his towering form wrapping around you from behind, his four strong arms sliding around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His lips brushed your neck, lingering there as he murmured, “You deserve this. We both do. Aiyumi is our world... but I miss my wife.”

Your stomach fluttered. You hadn’t heard him speak like that in weeks. His voice was raw and low, heavy with sincerity. “She’ll be safe?” you asked one more time, your voice quieter now. “With my life,” he answered, and that was the last word you needed.

The carriage ride to the city was long but comfortable, passing through dense forest and rolling fields that eventually opened into the beginnings of the capital Sukuna had conquered years ago. And yet, unlike the brutal imagery his reign once inspired, the city thrived under his rule—bustling with colorful stalls, laughter, the scents of grilled meat, rice, and sugared citrus rising into the air.

“Doesn’t look like the empire of a monster, does it?” he teased from beside you, his top arms resting behind his head while the bottom two reached lazily out the open window. You gave him a small, amused smile, still clutching your wrap. “It doesn’t. It’s... alive.”

“Because of you,” he said, eyes trained ahead. “You softened me. I still want to burn half the world most days, but now I think about how annoyed you'd be.” You laughed, the tension finally slipping from your shoulders.

The house Sukuna owned in the city was nestled above the shops, with a wide balcony overlooking the lantern-lit streets below. Inside, it was more modern—polished wood floors, silk curtains, and soft bedding that contrasted with his usual cold fortress of stone. He hadn't just claimed a house. He had made a home—for you.

That first evening, he took your hand and led you through the heart of the market. You tried mochi balls filled with syrupy jam, laughed when a musician pulled Sukuna into a drum circle—where the King of Curses proceeded to shock everyone by keeping perfect rhythm. You bought handmade earrings and tried on embroidered shawls, and for the first time in months, you felt like you again. Not just a mother, not just a queen. A woman. A wife.

Sukuna never stopped touching you. His pink hair glowed in the golden city light, his clawed fingers brushing the small of your back, his smirk widening every time he caught a merchant blushing under his glare. “They can’t have you,” he muttered as one man offered you a free scarf, “but let them try.” You rolled your eyes. “Are you jealous?”

“I’d skin them.” You snorted. “There’s the man I married.”

That night, you lay tangled together on the silken sheets of the city home, your head on his chest, his fingers stroking your back. “Thank you for dragging me here,” you whispered. “You never needed dragging,” he replied. “You just needed reminding.” You looked up at him. “Of what?”

He leaned down, brushing his lips against your forehead. “That you are still more than a mother. You’re mine. My wife. My partner. And tonight, I’ll make you remember that too.” His voice was velvet and heat—and the flicker in his eyes promised more to come.

The city buzzed outside, glowing in gold and crimson lantern light, music still pulsing from the streets. But up here, in the quiet, candlelit sanctuary of the city house Sukuna had built, it was just you and him.

The silk sheets were cool against your bare skin as you laid back, your hair spilling like ink across the pillow. The air was heavy, thick with wine and something far sweeter—anticipation. Sukuna hovered over you, one knee pressed into the bed, his eyes dark and dilated as he took in every inch of you. “You’ve been tempting me all night,” he rasped, voice low and rough as gravel. “Dancing, smiling, letting men talk to you like I wouldn’t slice their tongues out if they even breathed wrong.”

You gave him a coy smile, running your fingers up his chest—warm, hard muscle under scarred, tattooed skin. “I didn’t do anything but be myself. Is that a crime now, my Lord?” He growled under his breath and leaned down, brushing his lips along your jaw. “You’re my wife,” he murmured against your skin, “and tonight, I’m going to remind you exactly what that means.”

Four hands roamed you—strong, calloused palms mapping the softness of your thighs, the dip of your waist, the full curve of your breasts. You arched into his touch, sighing as his lips found your collarbone, nipping lightly, sucking until you felt the heat pool in your belly. And then—then—you felt something different. His lower mouth, the one that split open along his stomach, parted with a low hiss of breath, and the long, wet tongue slipped out, gliding across your stomach like heated silk. You gasped. “Sukuna—”

His regular mouth curved in a wicked grin. “You said you wanted to feel something different.” The tongue from his stomach slid lower, slower, tasting your skin, dragging across the insides of your thighs until your legs trembled. Your body tensed with every teasing flick, every breathless pause. And then he devoured you. The moment the tongue found your most sensitive place, you cried out, your hands flying to grip the sheets. Sukuna didn’t stop. His tongue flattened against your clit, then circled it, flicking and stroking, never losing rhythm. Your thighs shook around his waist, your hips bucked into the air.

“S-Sukuna—oh gods—” you whimpered, head thrown back, vision blurring. “You taste like heaven,” he rumbled. His regular mouth spoke as the tongue from his stomach never stopped moving, never stopped feasting. He slid two fingers inside you with one hand, curling them just right, while another hand held your thigh wide open, and another massaged your breast, pinching the stiffened peak until you were writhing. Your body clenched around him. “I-I’m—gonna—!”

“Good,” he growled. “Come on my tongue. Soak me, wife.” You shattered.

Back arching, toes curling, you cried out his name as your orgasm ripped through you like lightning. Sukuna didn’t stop until you were begging, panting, shivering with sensitivity.

But he wasn’t done.

As you tried to come down, dazed and trembling, you felt the heavy weight of him shift above you. His claws gripped your hips, dragging your spent body toward the edge of the bed. “Now I’m going to fuck you,” he said simply, voice thick and low with hunger. “And you’re going to take every inch.”

You felt him press against your soaked, twitching core—his bottom cock already thick and pulsing, and behind it, the second one hard and waiting. Your breath caught in your throat as he pushed in slowly, stretching you, filling you inch by inch until you were gasping into his mouth. “Fuck—yes—” you whimpered. His head dropped to your shoulder. “Say it again.”

“Yes. Yes, Suku—please.” He snapped his hips into you hard enough to knock the air from your lungs, the headboard thudding the wall. Your moans filled the room, blending with his low groans and the wet slap of skin on skin.

You held onto him like an anchor, your nails dragging down his back. He fucked you deep, slow at first, then rougher, until you were crying into his neck. And when he shifted your legs over his shoulders and pushed deeper—grazing the spots that made you scream—your second orgasm came so fast it stole your breath. You trembled in his arms, a sob caught in your throat as he followed you over the edge, filling you, groaning your name like a prayer.

Later, tangled together in the sheets, your legs draped over his thigh, you kissed the soft skin at his throat. “You really missed me,” you whispered.

He smirked, his voice low. “You have no idea.”

On the Second Day

Sunlight streamed through the tall windows of the city house, golden and soft as it warmed the sheets tangled around your legs. Sukuna lied beside you, still half-asleep, arms sprawled, one of his bottom hands cupping your thigh, the other draped over your waist protectively. You blinked slowly, body humming from the night before, still feeling the delicious ache of being loved so thoroughly.

You wriggled out of bed quietly, slipping on one of his oversized silk shirts—far too long on you, brushing your thighs. The cool marble of the kitchen floor met your bare feet as you gathered ingredients for breakfast, humming a soft tune under your breath. You were just flipping a piece of sizzling meat when two large arms wrapped around your waist, a lazy kiss pressed to your shoulder.

“Did you really think you could sneak out without waking me?” Sukuna’s voice was gravelly with sleep, his chest warm against your back.

“You were drooling into the pillow,” you teased, smiling as you leaned your head back against him. “I was dreaming about you,” he murmured, his bottom arms looping around your belly while one of the top ones reached for a grape from the counter. “Careful,” you warned, turning slightly with the spatula in hand. “I might turn the flame on you.”

“I am fire, darling.” You turned to face him, laughter bubbling up as he spun you suddenly, dipping you back as though you were in a ballroom instead of the kitchen. “Sukuna!”

“Dance with me, woman.” He grinned, canines sharp, but eyes soft.

And so you did—right there in the kitchen, swaying barefoot in silk shirts and boxers. He led you slowly, surprisingly light on his feet despite his hulking form, humming under his breath as you laughed, your cheeks flushed with joy. “I adore you,” he whispered suddenly, his lips brushing your temple. Your heart squeezed. “I know. I adore you too, Emperor.”

The streets were alive with the midday sun—festive, bustling, filled with scent and song. Stalls of merchants overflowed with silk fabrics, rare teas, lacquered jewelry, and spices from across the lands. Musicians played shamisen and flute on the corners, and the sound of drums echoed softly through the alleys. When Sukuna stepped into the plaza, tall and terrifyingly handsome in his formal robes—black with crimson embroidery, a thick gold sash at his waist—the energy shifted. Silence, then awe.

“Praise the Emperor,” voices whispered reverently. Then louder. “Praise the Emperor!”

People bowed where they stood. Children peeked from behind their parents, while older villagers dropped to their knees. Merchants offered their finest wares: hand-carved fans, precious stones, candied plums, silk scarves. You, dressed in soft lavender and gold, walked beside him with your hand in his, your cheeks blooming with warmth as more and more people greeted you. “Is that her? The Empress?”

“She’s beautiful—gods, look at her.”

“She brought him peace, they say.”

“She birthed the child of the Emperor... she must be sacred.”

Sukuna never stopped walking, but he slowed just enough to lean toward you, his voice low. “You look so divine, I should take you back right now.”

“You’d leave all this?” You smirked, squeezing his hand. “For me?”

“I’d leave everything for you.” The words melted your heart.

By nightfall, he took you to a grand hall at the center of the district—an ancient theatre now reclaimed and transformed. Lanterns hung high, reflecting off the velvet red curtains and lacquered wood floors. You gasped softly as you stepped inside. “You brought me to the theatre?” you whispered, emotion curling in your throat. He nodded once. “You mentioned it once... in passing. Years ago, you said you always wanted to go to a play.”

The show was beautiful—an old love story retold through dance, shadow, and song. Sukuna didn’t take his eyes off you once. Every gasp, every laugh, every tear—he drank it all in.

And when it ended, the audience rose to their feet. Sukuna pulled you into his arms right there, in front of everyone, and pressed a kiss to your forehead, then to your lips. It wasn’t a king’s kiss. It was a man’s kiss—grateful, tender, and entirely yours. “Let’s go home, my Empress,” he said softly.

The carriage wheels crunched softly over the gravel path as the house finally came into view—tucked beneath the tall trees, with flowering vines curling along its wooden beams and smoke curling gently from the chimney. A breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding finally escaped your lungs. You smiled. Home.

Sukuna’s massive hand rested against your thigh as he peered out the window beside you. “Three days was more than enough,” he muttered.

“You said four,” you teased softly, eyes glancing up at him. “I didn’t account for how much I’d miss the scent of this place,” he said, barely above a grumble. “The city stinks of perfume and overcooked fish.” You chuckled and leaned your head against his shoulder. “Or how much you'd miss your daughter?” he said with a smile that could have been missed with a blink of an eye.

As the carriage slowed to a stop, you climbed down with Sukuna’s help, your feet hitting the earth like they belonged there. The front door was open, letting the spring breeze in. You could already smell cinnamon and sugar in the air. Inside, your father sat on a quilted rug in the middle of the living room, legs crossed, gently jiggling a rattle above Aiyumi’s head. The baby squealed in delight, her tiny fingers reaching up to grab it, kicking her chubby legs. She was in a soft cream onesie, cheeks flushed with warmth and joy.

Your mother’s laughter drifted from the kitchen, along with the rich, sweet scent of a baking pie. She was wearing her apron, her sleeves rolled, humming to herself as she opened the oven door to check on the crust. You stepped into the doorway quietly, your hand still in Sukuna’s, and your father looked up, his brows lifting in surprise. “Well, look who it is,” he said with a grin. “Back already?” Aiyumi squealed again at the sound of your voice and flailed her little arms, her rattle hitting the floor.

“Didn’t want to be away another night,” you said warmly, kneeling down to pick her up. She buried her face into your shoulder instantly, as if she had been waiting for you. Sukuna leaned down to press a kiss to the top of her head and then one to yours, holding both of you close. Your father stretched with a playful groan and raised a brow at Sukuna. “So, tell me. Did you two actually enjoy the city and see anything beyond the bedsheets—or did you do your martial duties the entire trip?”

“Dad!” you gasped, cheeks warming immediately. Your mother snorted from the kitchen. “He’s not wrong. You two were glowing like fireflies when you left.”

Sukuna smirked as he straightened up, folding all four of his arms over his chest. “We saw the theatre, dined on the rooftops, walked through the market,” he said plainly, then added with a sharp, pointed grin, “but I’ll admit—my favorite view was in the bed.”

“Disgusting,” your father muttered, grabbing a throw pillow from the couch and tossing it at Sukuna, who easily caught it midair and threw it back harder. “Don’t break the windows,” your mother warned, though she was smiling as she pulled the pie from the oven.

You carried Aiyumi into the kitchen, planting kisses on her soft cheeks as she babbled. She was getting so big, already sitting up on her own and gripping your hair with impressive strength. Sukuna followed, watching you the whole way—his eyes calm now, soft. This was his peace. His world. And as the scent of cinnamon pie filled the home, and your parents teased one another in the kitchen, and your daughter pressed her forehead to yours… it was hard not to feel like this quiet corner of the world was more precious than any throne. “Welcome home,” your father said sincerely, offering you a plate. “Hope you’re hungry.” Sukuna raised a brow. “I’m always hungry.” You looked over your shoulder and smiled knowingly. “Don’t start.” He smirked. “Just saying. The view is nice again.”

The moon was full and quiet, casting a soft silver glow through the windows of your bedroom. The air smelled faintly of lavender from the oil Sukuna had lit for you hours ago. Aiyumi was already asleep in her crib, swaddled in her little blanket, the tiniest snores escaping her nose. You could hear the faint creaks of the house settling and the crackling of the fire still going strong in the hearth. The comfort of home wrapped around you like a warm quilt. You lay in bed, one leg thrown lazily over Sukuna’s massive thigh, your cheek resting on the stretch of his chest where one of his arms coiled around your back. His other hands were busy — one stroking slow, lazy circles on your lower back, the other gently combing through your hair.

“Feels like we never left,” you murmured sleepily. “Hn,” he grunted softly. “Only this place makes me breathe right.” You smiled against his skin.

He was quiet for a long time, the kind of quiet you’d learned over the years meant he was thinking, not distant. His fingers didn’t stop moving, didn’t slow. Then, without changing his tone, he asked—

“…Would you want another?” Your eyes blinked open. “Another…?” He looked down at you, only slightly — his eyes were warm, almost shy in their intensity. “Child,” he said. “Would you want another?”

You felt your heart slow, then flutter. The question caught you off guard not because you hadn’t thought about it, but because hearing it from him—Ryomen Sukuna, warlord, king of curses, emperor, and now your devoted husband—made something swell deep in your chest. “Is that what you want?” you asked gently, lifting your chin to meet his gaze fully. He was quiet again, then answered honestly. “I do.”

You reached for his face, cupping his jaw with one hand, your thumb brushing beneath one of his lower eyes. “You really want more sticky little hands tugging at your hair? More sleepless nights?”

“I don’t sleep anyway.” You laughed softly, but it wasn’t teasing. It was full of that love you could never quite put into words. “You’ve changed.”

He cocked a brow. “You think wanting to fill this house with more of you is change?” You felt a blush creep up your cheeks. “You weren’t always so sentimental, my lord.” He leaned down, brushing his lips to your temple. “You’re right. I was worse. I would have demanded it. Taken it. But now…” He kissed your forehead next. “I ask.” And then your nose. “I wait.” And finally, your lips. “Because you are more powerful than any king.” You hummed, smile melting against his mouth.

“I think…” you whispered as his hands pulled you closer, “...one day, yes. I’d love to see you holding a tiny version of yourself again. But right now, I just want to hold this life. Our life. Her.” His eyes softened, and he nodded. “No rush,” he said. “But I’ll be ready. Whenever you are.” You nestled into his chest again, breathing in the heat and scent of him, your fingers draped over his abdomen, close to the old cursed mouth that now only ever spoke want for you. Aiyumi stirred lightly in her crib, as if sensing the peace that filled the room. “I’ll take care of all of you,” he murmured suddenly, barely audible. “Forever.” You kissed his chest. “I know, Suku. And I’ll take care of you, too.”

The late afternoon light filtered through the curtains of your father’s little cottage, casting long golden beams across the wooden floor. It should’ve been a peaceful, ordinary day — birds chirping in the trees just outside the window, the smell of lavender and baked bread faint in the air. But inside the room, the quiet was different. It was heavy.

You stood at the foot of your father’s bed, your hands gripping the ends of your sleeves tightly as you watched him lie still. His face, once so animated and full of teasing grins, now looked tired. His eyes were softer, clouded with exhaustion, though they still found you when you stepped closer.

He had gone from lively — taking morning walks, picking fresh herbs, tinkering in the garden — to weak, coughing in the night, barely able to sit up without help. You had noticed it slowly at first. Then, all at once, it was undeniable. Sukuna had sensed it, too. Without a word, he summoned the royal physician. The diagnosis had been whispered like a curse: an aggressive form of cancer. Deep in the organs. Untreatable. The physician spoke it with reverence and apology. There was no cure, no potion or spell to reverse what had already begun to take its toll.

Unless...

Sukuna stood beside the bed, arms folded but not in his usual dominating way. His shoulders were relaxed, eyes shadowed but focused. The fire of his power simmered beneath his skin — quiet, for once. “There is... another way,” he said, voice low. “I could turn you. Into a cursed human. It would extend your life. Eradicate the sickness. You’d still be you.” Your father chuckled softly, his fingers loosely curled over your mother’s hand. She sat on the bed beside him, clutching his palm with both of hers, trying — and failing — to keep her tears from falling. Her head was bowed slightly, as if ashamed to cry. You had never seen her like this. Not even when she apologized for the pain she’d once caused. Not even when she learned she was going to be a grandmother.

“Son,” your father said quietly, looking up at Sukuna, “I appreciate the offer. I do. But I’ve lived a damn fine life. A long one. Longer than most get.”

You swallowed thickly, blinking fast as tears burned the back of your eyes. “But—” your voice cracked. Your father looked at you, smiling warmly through his pallor. “Don’t you go crying on me now, sweet girl. I’m still here. And I’ll be here as long as I can. Just… let me go peacefully when the time comes.” Sukuna didn’t interrupt. He didn’t try to argue. He stood still as stone, but his eyes flickered down to your mother, who had her forehead pressed against the back of your father’s hand, silent tears spilling down her cheeks.

And then, quietly — softly, for once — Sukuna said, “You’ve done a good job. With her. With your life.” Your father snorted, hoarse but amused. “Now that’s a rare thing, coming from your grumpy ass.” Even Sukuna let out a faint exhale — not quite a laugh, but close. “I swear,” your father went on, turning his head with a slow smile, “if I die and come back just to haunt you, I’m stealing all your damn kimonos.”

“Old man,” Sukuna muttered, shaking his head. “Even half-dead, you’re still running your mouth.”

“That’s how you know I’m not gone yet.” Despite the pain, despite the fear swelling in your chest, that made you smile. You climbed gently onto the bed, curling up beside your father, resting your head on his shoulder as your mother held his other hand. Sukuna remained close — arms behind his back, gaze on the man who had never once feared him, even when he could’ve. You had never loved your family more. And you had never feared losing them more than now.

The grave was fresh — the soil still dark, the edges uneven from the recent layering of earth. A wooden post marked the spot, temporary until the stonemason finished carving the headstone Sukuna had commissioned. Around the grave stood the people who loved him most, all dressed in soft hues of cream, beige, and muted gray — clothing chosen by you, not for mourning, but for warmth. He had always hated black.

You stood between your mother and Sukuna, your hand cradling your baby girl against your chest, her head tucked just beneath your chin. At seven months old, Aiyumi didn’t know the weight of the day — she cooed and made soft little sounds against your skin, kicking her small legs contently in her wrap. Her soft pink hair caught the sunlight, a ribbon tied neatly above her brow.

Your mother stood stiffly at your side, her hand shaking slightly as she clutched a white flower — one of his favorites from the garden he used to tend. Her lips were tight, but her eyes… her eyes were flooded with unshed tears, red at the corners. She hadn't cried much in front of anyone since the death. But here, at his resting place, her walls began to crumble.

Uraume stepped forward with ceremonial grace, dressed in pale robes that moved gently with the breeze. In one hand, they held a sprig of sacred herbs and a long, woven strip of cloth — symbols of peace, legacy, and eternal return. “We gather today not to mourn the end,” Uraume said, voice steady, solemn, yet comforting, “but to celebrate the wholeness of a life lived in full.”

Everyone went quiet. Even the wind seemed to hush, the breeze softer, weaving through the tall grass and rustling the leaves of the nearby trees.

“His was a soul that moved without fear,” Uraume continued, “that chose love in the face of hardship, laughter in the face of loss, and protection for those dearest to him. He was a father, a husband, a man who did not rule — but guided.” You felt a tear fall down your cheek. You didn’t even try to wipe it. Sukuna stood beside you, unmoving, arms folded. His expression was unreadable, but he had dressed in his ceremonial robes: deep crimson with golden thread lining the sleeves — the finest garb of a king, worn not out of ego, but out of respect. He hadn’t spoken much in the days leading up to the burial. He’d simply handled everything — the grave, the ceremony, the food to be delivered to the guests waiting back at the house. All of it. Quietly.

“I believe,” Uraume said gently, “that when a man passes with love in his heart, the energy of that love does not die. It moves through time. Through the ones he leaves behind. His daughter. His granddaughter. And in the breath of the wind that brushes your skin, there he is.” As if on cue, a soft breeze blew across the field. Your mother finally dropped the flower. It landed gently atop the grave. She whispered something under her breath — a goodbye too private to share. Then you stepped forward, holding Aiyumi, her warm body tucked into yours. “Say goodbye to Grandpa,” you whispered. She cooed and reached one tiny hand toward the sky. You smiled through your tears.

Behind you, Sukuna stepped forward and stood silently. He didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. But he bowed his head slightly — a gesture that, coming from him, meant everything. And when the wind blew again, stronger this time, it seemed to wrap around you like an embrace.

The cottage was quiet that night. The usual warm hum of conversation, the scent of simmering herbs, or Aiyumi’s happy babbling — all of it felt distant, muffled by the weight of the day. The fire crackled in the hearth, low and steady, casting orange light over the wooden walls. You had just finished nursing Aiyumi. She lay in her cradle beside your shared bed, fast asleep, one tiny hand curled up by her cheek, her breaths soft and even.

You’d stood there for a while just watching her, your palm pressed lightly to your chest. Sukuna hadn’t said a word since returning from the burial site. Not in the carriage. Not during the meal Uraume left for the two of you. He stood by the window now, in loose pants and nothing else, his muscular form bathed in the moonlight pouring through the curtains. Arms folded across his chest, his jaw was tight, and his expression unreadable.

You walked toward him slowly, still in your soft cotton nightgown. “You’ve been quiet,” you said gently, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m always quiet,” he muttered.

“Not with me.”

He turned his head then, looking at you with one of those long, searching stares. The ones he always used when he was trying not to say something that might shatter the mood. His eyes flicked down to your feet, then to the cradle where your daughter slept. “You haven’t let yourself feel it yet,” you said, stepping closer. “Have you?”

“I don’t have time to grieve,” he said sharply. “Not like you. Not like them.” You lifted your hand and placed it on his chest. “That’s not true.”

“I’m not built for sorrow.” You smiled, a soft, sad smile. “You’re built for more than you think.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “He was annoying. He teased me constantly. Never stopped calling me names, even when I had four arms and the title of Emperor.”

“And you loved him.” Sukuna didn’t speak.

You leaned your head against his chest, wrapping your arms around his waist. “I know you did.” His hands, large and trembling slightly, finally lifted to rest against your back. He held you there, breathing deep, his fingers slipping into your hair. “I didn’t want him to die,” he finally said. The voice was raw. Quiet. “I could’ve saved him.” You pulled back just enough to look up at him, your hand cupping his cheek. “You offered to. He said no. That was his choice. He wanted to go as a man. Not as a curse.” He looked away, jaw flexing. “I didn’t like watching you cry.”

“I didn’t like watching my mother cry,” you whispered. “But I’m glad I did. It meant she loved him.” Silence wrapped around you both for a moment. Then his hands lifted higher, cradling your face between them. “You two have the same eyes,” he murmured. “You cry the same way. Quiet… like it’s some kind of secret.”

“And you grieve like a storm trapped in a bottle.”

That made him chuckle, faintly, just once. You tiptoed and pressed a soft kiss to his mouth. “Let me carry some of this for you,” you said against his lips. “We’ve carried everything else together, haven’t we?” He kissed you again — slower this time, lingering — and then pulled you into his arms, all four of them wrapped tightly around your body like he needed to hold everything close just to keep from falling apart. That night, you slept tangled in each other, your hand over his heart, his curled protectively over your growing daughter’s cradle. And for once, Sukuna slept deeply — no nightmares, no interruptions — just the weight of love and memory holding him still.

The next morning dawned softly, the sky painted in gentle pinks and pale golds. Birds sang in the distance, and a breeze rustled the trees surrounding the home Sukuna had built for you. Peace had settled over the property, but the ache of loss still lingered like morning dew. Inside the main cottage, Sukuna cradled Aiyumi with surprising gentleness for such a large man. She gurgled and swatted at his lower arms, tiny fists curling with fascination. He held her up in front of him, his usual scowl softened into something... fond.

“You little menace,” he muttered, watching her try to grab one of his earrings. “You got your mother’s hands. Always reaching for trouble.” She squealed and kicked, and he sighed with a grunt, holding her against his chest. “You’re lucky I like you.” You had smiled watching from the doorway for a moment, your heart full. Then you slipped into your shoes and draped a shawl over your shoulders. “I’m going to see Mom,” you called to Sukuna. “She’s probably already brewed the tea.”

“She’d better not be making you lift anything,” he grumbled without turning, still completely enraptured with your daughter. “Tell her I’ll come over later to help with those heavy planters.”

You smirked. “Yes, yes, mighty Emperor and professional pot-mover.” He snorted. “Go.”

You crossed the back garden, the grass dewy beneath your steps. Your mother’s cottage was already warm with life — the faint scent of chamomile and bread wafted through the open windows. You knocked gently on the doorframe. “Come in,” she called, her voice gentle but tired. You stepped inside, greeted by the cozy scent of the room, and the soft sound of porcelain clinking. She was at the little round table near the window, two steaming cups already set out. “I figured you’d come by,” she said, smiling faintly. “Something about the air this morning told me.” You sat down beside her. The tea was warm between your palms, the aroma calming. “Sleep okay?” you asked softly. She nodded. “As well as I could without his snoring.” There was a pause, then she laughed — a quiet, genuine thing. “I used to hate that snoring. Drove me mad. I’d elbow him in the ribs in the middle of the night and he’d just grumble and roll over like nothing happened. Now…” Her voice caught in her throat, and she looked down into her cup. “Now I’d give anything to hear it again.”

You reached over and gently took her hand. She squeezed back, eyes brimming. “We were ridiculous, you know,” she said, chuckling again, though tears glistened in her eyes. “Always arguing in our younger years. Always going at each other. And yet... somehow the older we got, the better we got at loving each other. And the sex,” she added with a sly look, “was better than when we were young. Slower. But richer. More... connected.”

You snorted into your tea, laughing through your nose. “Mom!” She just shrugged, wiping under her eyes with the side of her hand. “What? It’s true. I think we finally learned how to stop fighting and start listening. That made all the difference.” You were quiet a moment, then gently said, “He really loved you. Right up to the very end.”

“I know,” she whispered. “And I loved him. Even when I didn’t know how to show it. Especially then.” She stared out the window toward the garden. “I miss him standing next to me while I watered the plants. He always over-watered. He said the flowers liked a good soaking.”

She smiled through a wave of tears. You leaned your head on her shoulder, and she rested hers atop yours. “I’m really glad you’re here,” you murmured. “I’m glad I am too,” she whispered, stroking your hair. “I just wish he still was.” The two of you sat like that for a long while, drinking tea in the quiet cottage, with the wind brushing gently against the windows — and the spirit of a man neither of you would ever stop loving settling softly over you like sunlight.

#anime fanfic #fanfiction #ryomen sukuna #sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna ryomen smut #sukuna smut #jjk sukuna #sukuna ryomen #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #true form sukuna #ryomen sukuna x reader #jujutsu kaisen ryomen #ryomen x reader #jjk ryomen #ryomen sukuna fluff #ryomen sukuna smut

25 notes · View notes

suku-enthusiasts · 1 day ago

Text

Were Just Friends || s. ryomen - (one shots)

❛ ❜ Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader (one shot series) - Officials

❝you asked your best friend to take your v-card. As friends. No feelings, no strings- Spoiler: it completely ruined your friendship. Now you're dodging each other, pretending nothing happened, while secretly nursing a years-long crush. From meme-filled silence to tearful confessions, jealous fights, and awkward flirting — somehow, you stumble your way into love, marriage, and a house full of sarcastic chaos. Turns out, “just friends” was never really the plan.❞

word count ; 950

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. smut . anxiety. major fluff

main masterlist | series masterlist

Six months.

Six months of secret smiles and quiet touches, of stolen glances across crowded rooms, of slipping out of parties separately only to meet in the dark hush of your apartment, safe and unseen. Six months of building something slow and real, something just for the two of you. You liked it that way. No announcements, no declarations. No prying eyes or nosy questions. It was a kind of peace neither of you had ever really known — a love that didn’t need to be shouted to feel true.

Still, your friends weren’t stupid.

Shoko, Geto, Utahime, Toji, Choso — they knew. They saw it in the way you and Sukuna moved around each other, the invisible thread that tugged you closer even when you pretended otherwise. They saw it in the soft smiles you didn’t bother to hide, in the way Sukuna’s rough edges dulled slightly whenever you were near. But they didn’t press. Maybe because they understood. Maybe because they knew that some things were too precious to drag out into the harsh light of the world.

Tonight, the two of you were curled up in the soft cocoon of your apartment — a place that smelled faintly of vanilla candles and Sukuna’s cologne, a place cluttered with the quiet chaos of two lives woven together: his jacket tossed over the back of a chair, your book left open on the coffee table, an empty mug with the ghost of his lipstick-stained smile drying at the rim. You were sprawled on the couch, legs tangled, the TV droning on low in the background — some random cooking show neither of you was really watching. Sukuna sat behind you, one arm slung lazily around your waist, his fingers tracing absent circles into the skin under your shirt, his other hand scrolling mindlessly through his phone. It was late. The world outside was a hush of city lights and distant traffic, but inside, everything was warm and slow, the kind of quiet that only came from deep comfort.

“Hey,” Sukuna murmured, voice low and rough from disuse. “Hmm?” You tilted your head back slightly to look at him. He gave a lazy smirk. “We ever gonna tell people? Or are we just gonna keep pretending you’re not stupid in love with me?” You laughed, soft and breathless, and turned fully in his arms so you could look at him properly. His hair was a mess, falling into his eyes, and there was that usual cocky tilt to his mouth — but the way he was looking at you was softer than anyone else ever got to see. “Maybe,” you said, teasing, trailing a finger along his jaw. “What’s your rush, Itadori? Afraid people are gonna think you’re actually capable of being nice?”

He snorted, catching your hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Please. Let ‘em talk. I’ve got nothing to prove.” You bit your lip, smiling. “You want to?”

He shrugged, loose and easy. “Yeah. Think I’m ready for the world to be jealous.” You laughed again, heart full and light, and leaned forward to nuzzle your nose against his. He caught your chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your face up, studying you.

“Come here,” he murmured, reaching for his phone. You scooted closer, tucking yourself into his side as he opened the camera app. He held it up, angling it slightly so it caught both of you — his bare chest where his hoodie hung open, your soft, sleepy smile, the faint glint of your matching rings. “Smile pretty for me,” he teased. You did, bright and real, leaning your head against his shoulder as he snapped the picture. He glanced at it, snorted in approval. “Your turn,” you said, reaching for your own phone.

He watched with lazy amusement as you angled the camera, but just before you hit the button, you turned and pressed a kiss to his cheek — soft and lingering, just enough to make him huff a laugh. You glanced at the photo — Sukuna with his usual cocky grin, head slightly tilted toward you, and you kissing his cheek, eyes closed, smile curving against his skin.

Perfect.

You posted first, fingers hovering over the caption for a moment before typing:

You @coffee_enthusiast: my favorite peace.

Simple. Honest. No fanfare. You hit post before you could second-guess it. Sukuna watched you, then took his phone, selecting the picture you’d taken — the one of you kissing his cheek. His caption came faster, no hesitation, just pure Sukuna:

sukuna_itadori: sorry, she’s not taking applications.

He posted it, then tossed his phone onto the couch and pulled you back against him, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck that made you squirm and laugh. Within minutes, your phones were buzzing — likes, comments, messages from your friends.

Shoko: lmao finally Geto: knew it Utahime: about time, honestly Choso: she’s out of your league but congrats bro Toji: 👍🏻

You snorted at the flood of notifications, feeling Sukuna’s chest rumble with laughter against your back. “They’re gonna give us so much shit,” you murmured, scrolling through the reactions. “Let ‘em,” Sukuna said, pressing another kiss to your temple. “I got nothing to hide.”

You twisted to look at him, heart swelling so painfully full you thought it might burst. “Me neither,” you said softly, and kissed him — slow, sure, unhurried — like there was all the time in the world.

Because there was.

Because you had built this together — quiet, slow, real.

And now the world knew.

But the most important thing?

It was still yours.

#anime fanfic #fanfiction #ryomen sukuna #sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna smut #sukuna ryomen smut #jjk sukuna #sukuna ryomen #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #ryoumen sukuna #jujutsu sukuna #ryomen sukuna smut #ryomen x reader #jjk ryomen #jujutsu kaisen ryomen #ryomen sukuna x reader

89 notes · View notes

suku-enthusiasts · 2 days ago

Text

all my friends forgot that my birthday is next week, some of them went and asked me if it was in July, so instead of crying about it, I finished a One Shot series I have been working on, bc when does Sukuna not make me feel better ;) - will be posting a chapter everyday !!

Were Just Friends || s. ryomen - (one shots)

❛ ❜ Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader (one shot series)

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. smut . anxiety.

main masterlist

we're just friends official arguments tough guy sukuna mine. mine. mine. text war anniversary shenanigans pain in the ass my parents blessings flu & clumsy proposals birthdays & part II farmers market suits & future father tipsy dress fittings jealousy is bitch new home & marriage

#anime fanfic #fanfiction #ryomen sukuna #sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna ryomen smut #sukuna smut #jjk sukuna #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #sukuna ryomen #jujutsu sukuna #ryoumen sukuna #ryomen sukuna smut #ryomen x reader #jjk ryomen #jujutsu kaisen ryomen #ryomen sukuna x reader

103 notes · View notes

suku-enthusiasts · 2 days ago

Text

Were Just Friends || s. ryomen - (one shots)

❛ ❜ Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader (one shot series) - We're Just Friends

word count ; 8.7k

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. smut . anxiety.

main masterlist | series masterlist

You sat on the floor of Sukuna’s apartment, legs folded beneath you, the thin mouth of a beer bottle sweating in your hand. The night pressed soft against the windows, a low hum of distant traffic threading through the half-lit room. Sukuna was sprawled on the couch above you, one arm draped over the back, the other lazily holding his own drink, shirt half-rumpled from the heat. You hadn’t meant to bring it up. God knows you’d come here just for the comfort of familiarity — the easy way being around Sukuna felt like slipping into a warm bath, no pretense, no edges. You two had been friends for years, long enough that you finished each other’s sentences, fought without heat, forgave without words. Long enough that sometimes, when the loneliness got too loud, you’d find yourself here without even thinking about it, drawn to him like tide to moon.

But somewhere between the third beer and the long, unspooling silence, the thought had rooted in your mind. Tangled itself around your throat until it was the only thing you could taste. You shifted, nervous energy crackling at your fingertips, and heard the faint scrape of Sukuna’s ringed fingers drumming idly against the couch cushion. “S’wrong with you?” he asked, voice low and amused, a rumble that made your heart hitch. You stared at the floor, picking at the worn seam of your jeans. “I was thinking,” you started, and already your voice was betraying you, too tight, too thin. Sukuna snorted lightly. “Dangerous.” You licked your lips, the words sticking, reluctant. But they burned too hot to stay buried. “I was thinking… if it’s just—” You paused, heart hammering. “If it’s just between friends, it wouldn’t be weird. Right?” A long pause. You could feel his eyes on you, that sharp, unrelenting gaze that could peel a lie from your skin without even trying.

“What are you getting at?” His tone was still lazy, but there was an undercurrent now, something you couldn’t name. You swallowed, forcing your gaze up to meet his. His hair was a little messy, face half-shadowed by the low lamp in the corner, but his mouth was set in a careful, almost unreadable line. “I don’t want to be scared anymore,” you said, and it came out softer than you meant it to. “I don’t want it to be this big, terrifying thing hanging over me. I trust you, Sukuna. And if it’s just… friends helping each other out, it doesn’t have to be a big deal.” For a moment, he said nothing. He just stared at you, the air thick with something heavy, almost suffocating. And then, slowly, he leaned forward, setting his bottle on the table with a soft thunk.

“You want me to fuck you,” he said plainly, voice a rasp of heat against your skin. You flinched at the bluntness, but nodded, heart beating so loud it drowned out the world. His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “You sure, sweetheart? This ain’t something you can take back.” You nodded again, firmer this time. “I’m sure. Just… just as friends.” That did make him smile, crooked and sharp, a flicker of something dark in his eyes that made your breath catch. “Friends,” he repeated, the word tasting strange on his tongue. He leaned back against the couch, studying you with a gaze so heavy it pinned you in place. “Alright. If that’s what you want.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, the tension bleeding from your shoulders. But before you could shift, Sukuna held up a hand, a glint of silver from his rings catching the low light. “Just so we’re clear,” he murmured, voice softer now, almost dangerous in its tenderness, “you call the shots. You want to stop, we stop. You want it slow, we go slow. You get scared, you tell me.”

You nodded, words stuck somewhere in the back of your throat. “Good girl,” he said, and the praise was so casual, so familiar, that it unraveled something inside you. He stood, slow and unhurried, and reached down to take your hand, pulling you to your feet. His touch was firm, grounding, and for a moment you just stood there, staring at one another, the space between you charged and trembling. He was close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin, see the faint scar that cut through his eyebrow, the small flecks of gold in his otherwise blood-red eyes.

You wondered if he knew — if he could see the way your hands trembled, the way your pulse raced. If he could hear the way your heart whispered his name like a prayer you didn’t dare speak aloud. “Come on,” he said, voice a low rumble as he tugged you gently toward the bedroom, “let’s not do this on the damn floor.” You let him lead you, steps uncertain, but willing. The bed was unmade, sheets rumpled from the night before, and you stood awkwardly at the edge while he toed off his shoes and sat, looking up at you with a patience you hadn’t expected.

“Clothes off, sweetheart,” he said softly, “but you can leave your shirt on if you want. Just whatever makes you comfortable.” Your hands fumbled at your waistband, nerves prickling under your skin, but you forced yourself to move, to obey. Sukuna didn’t rush you, didn’t leer or make a crude comment — he just watched, gaze steady, as you peeled off your jeans, standing there in your underwear, heart trying to beat its way out of your chest. “C’mere,” he murmured, holding out a hand, and you took it, grateful for the anchor.

He pulled you onto the bed, settling you between his legs, and his hands — those big, calloused hands — slid up your thighs, slow and careful. He wasn’t teasing, not really. He was just… feeling. Mapping. Getting you used to the touch. “You’re okay,” he said, voice so low it was barely more than a breath. “You’re doing good.” You shivered, but it wasn’t fear — not exactly. It was something deeper, more molten. He leaned in, mouth brushing yours, and the kiss was gentle, almost chaste at first. You melted into it, hands clutching at his shoulders, and when he deepened it — just a little — you followed without thought, without fear. It was easy, with Sukuna. It always had been. But what you didn’t know — couldn’t know — was that Sukuna had been in love with you for longer than he cared to admit. That every careless touch, every easy laugh, every late-night beer shared on that stupid couch had been a slow kind of torture. He hadn’t said a word because you were his friend — his best friend — and he wasn’t about to ruin that with the kind of feelings that lived in the marrow of his bones.

So he kissed you like a secret he couldn’t bear to speak, like you were something fragile and precious he’d been trusted to hold. He kissed you like he was memorizing, just in case you changed your mind and he had to let you go. You didn’t see the way his hands trembled when he pushed your hair back from your face, didn’t hear the way his breath caught when you looked up at him with so much trust it nearly broke him. To you, it was just a favor between friends. To Sukuna, it was everything he’d ever wanted — and nothing he could ever have.

Sukuna kissed you until your knees softened, until your hands inched up of their own accord to clutch at his bare shoulders, nails digging lightly into the muscle there. He kissed you like a man starved, but gentle, careful not to spook you — coaxing instead of demanding. Each brush of his lips lingered, a slow, dragging ache that left you dizzy. When he pulled back, his thumb brushed along your jaw, featherlight, and his eyes — gods, those eyes — were molten, dark and burning.

“Lay back for me,” he murmured, voice sandpaper rough and thick with something he tried to swallow down. You obeyed, heart stuttering, lying back against his rumpled sheets. The fabric was warm beneath you, worn soft from use, and it smelled faintly of him — soap and smoke and something elemental that you couldn’t name. Sukuna’s hands followed you down, one bracing beside your head, the other skimming over your waist, dragging slow circles over the thin fabric of your shirt. He leaned over you, a tower of heat and muscle and restraint, and pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the line of your jaw.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, the hint of a smile ghosting his lips. “I know,” you whispered back, cheeks burning. His hand slid lower, over the soft plane of your belly, fingertips dipping under the waistband of your underwear but going no further. “We can stop anytime. Say the word.” You shook your head, biting your lip. “Please, Sukuna. I’m okay.” Something flashed in his eyes — not quite relief, not quite triumph, but something wild and unguarded. He nodded once, and then his hand slipped lower, dragging your underwear down your hips, slow and deliberate, until they were a forgotten pool on the floor. You made a soft, uncertain sound — half embarrassment, half nerves — and Sukuna’s gaze softened. He kissed your hipbone, the press of his mouth warm and reverent.

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured against your skin. “You know that?” You didn’t — not really — but the way he said it, low and certain, made you want to believe him. Sukuna settled between your thighs, his hands firm as they parted your legs, thumbs stroking slow circles against the inside of your knees. He didn’t rush — not like you thought he might. For all his reputation, all the whispered rumors about how he left girls wrecked and wanting, there was a patience in him now that stole your breath. “Gonna get you ready,” he said, voice a low rasp. “Gotta loosen you up first.” Your breath hitched, and before you could respond, he dipped his head, mouth brushing along the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. He kissed his way inward, slow and thorough, his breath a hot ghost against you. When he finally pressed a kiss to the center of you, you gasped, hips jerking.

“Easy, baby,” he soothed, one hand anchoring your hip, thumb rubbing lazy circles into your skin. “Let me take care of you.” And then his mouth was on you, and every thought you had fractured into white noise. His tongue was slow at first, exploratory, tracing the shape of you with maddening precision. He licked a broad stripe up your center, then circled your clit with the faintest flicker of pressure, just enough to make your back arch off the bed. You whimpered, fingers twisting into the sheets, and Sukuna groaned low in his throat — the sound vibrating against you, pulling another helpless sound from your lips.

“God, you taste good,” he muttered, almost to himself, before diving back in. He worked you with devastating skill, alternating between slow, languid strokes and quick, teasing flicks that had your thighs trembling. His hands were firm on you, holding you open, holding you still, and the occasional scrape of his teeth sent a fresh shiver coursing through you. “Sukuna,” you gasped, thighs trying to clamp together, but he only chuckled, low and wicked, and pressed them wider apart. “Not running from me now, sweetheart,” he said, voice thick, and then he slid a single, ringed finger along your entrance, testing.

“Can I?”

You nodded frantically, words lost to the haze of sensation. His finger slid in slowly, the stretch unfamiliar but not painful — not with the way his mouth kept coaxing pleasure from you, drowning out the discomfort. He moved carefully, curling his finger just so, finding that spot that made your breath stutter. “That’s it,” he murmured against your clit. “You’re doing so good.” He added another finger, slow and patient, scissoring them gently to stretch you. The fullness made your toes curl, but the way he kept his mouth on you — the wet, insistent pressure of his tongue — dragged you higher, past nerves and uncertainty, into a place where only sensation mattered. Your climax crept up on you, slow and inevitable, and when it broke, it shattered you. You cried out, thighs clamping around his head, and Sukuna didn’t pull away — he just kept licking you through it, drawing every last tremor from your body until you were gasping, boneless against the mattress. Only then did he pull back, his mouth wet, his chin slick with you. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, smirking a little, but his eyes were molten, dark with something deeper than just desire. “You’re ready now,” he said, voice low and wrecked, and you nodded, dazed, still trying to catch your breath.

He stripped off the rest of his clothes with swift efficiency, and you tried not to stare, but it was impossible. He was beautiful — all lean muscle and sharp edges, tattoos winding around his arms and ribs, the ink stark against his skin. Sukuna climbed back onto the bed, settling between your thighs again, and his hand cradled your cheek, thumb brushing over your flushed skin.

“You sure, sweetheart?” he asked, softer now, a breath of hesitation in his voice. You looked up at him, heart in your throat, and nodded. “I’m sure.” He smiled then — a real one, small and a little shaky — and kissed you, slow and lingering, before reaching down to line himself up with you. “Deep breath, baby,” he whispered against your mouth, and then he pushed in, slow and careful, giving you time to adjust. The stretch burned, but it was bearable, made easier by the way he kissed you, murmured against your skin, stroked his hands along your sides in a rhythm meant to soothe. He moved inch by inch, patient as the tide, until he was fully seated inside you, and you were clinging to him, gasping. “Okay?” he asked, voice strained. You nodded, the fullness overwhelming but not unbearable. More than anything, you felt held — anchored by his body, his touch, his presence. “Okay,” you whispered back.

Sukuna’s forehead dropped to yours, his breath ragged. He stayed still, letting you adjust, one hand slipping between your bodies to rub gentle, steady circles over your clit. The pleasure bloomed again, slow and warm, easing the ache. “Move,” you said, voice trembling.

He did — slow, careful thrusts that built a rhythm, gentle and deliberate, each one stealing the breath from your lungs. He kissed you through it, again and again, like he couldn’t help himself, and you clung to him, letting the pleasure mount, letting it drown out the nerves. Sukuna made a low, wrecked sound against your mouth, his thrusts growing a little deeper, a little less controlled, but still careful, always careful. He murmured praise against your skin — so good, baby, takin’ me so good — and it warmed you from the inside out, made you feel worshipped.

You came again, trembling around him, and he cursed, hips stuttering. He pulled out with a groan, finishing himself with a few rough strokes, spilling hot and heavy against your belly. He caught his breath, then reached for a tissue on the nightstand, cleaning you up with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

When he was done, he flopped beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other reaching blindly for you. You shifted closer, letting him pull you against his side, skin still humming from the aftershocks. His heart was pounding, a steady thrum beneath your cheek.

“Friends, huh?” he muttered, voice thick and wrecked. You laughed, weakly, not trusting yourself to say more. What you didn’t see — couldn’t see — was the way his mouth softened as he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, the way his fingers tightened on your waist like he never wanted to let go.

Friends, he told himself, even as he closed his eyes and memorized the weight of you against him.

Just friends.

Even if it broke him.

The morning after tasted strange on your tongue, something brittle and hollow. You woke tangled in Sukuna’s sheets, the space beside you still warm but empty. For a long moment, you stayed there, eyes tracing the cracks in the ceiling, the silence pressing too heavily against your ribs. When you finally gathered the will to move, you found him in the kitchen, shirtless and disheveled, pouring coffee into a mug like it was just another Saturday morning. He didn’t say much. You didn’t either. There was an awkwardness now, thick and clumsy, crawling over the easy familiarity you once wore like a second skin. It prickled at your throat, made your hands fumble as you pulled on your jeans, grabbed your jacket from where it had been tossed over the back of a chair the night before. Sukuna leaned against the counter, coffee in hand, watching you with an unreadable expression, mouth drawn tight.

“I should get home,” you mumbled, not meeting his gaze. “Gotta get ready for work.” He didn’t argue, didn’t try to stop you. Just nodded once, slow, and took a sip of his coffee. You lingered in the doorway, searching for something — a sign, a thread to hold onto — but there was nothing. So you left.

The door shut with a quiet finality behind you, and the cool morning air bit at your skin as you made your way down the steps, heart dragging low in your chest. You didn’t look back.

The days that followed felt… off.

You and Sukuna had always talked. Every day without fail — sometimes a quick text, sometimes a flood of memes and videos, casual and thoughtless, a rhythm as natural as breathing. He still texted. Little things at first — TikToks, memes, a funny picture of his lunch with a snide caption — but your replies grew shorter, tighter, clipped. You told yourself you were busy, distracted, buried in work, but the truth was far uglier, coiled tight in your gut, you didn’t know how to be around him anymore, a week passed. Then another. Then it thinned to a trickle, and eventually, silence filled the spaces where laughter used to live.

A month slipped by. Then two.

You didn’t see him — not even once — which was strange, given how small your world had once been. No lazy hangouts. No late-night calls. Just... absence. Heavy and unspoken, and maybe it wouldn’t have hurt so much if you hadn’t realized — slowly, painfully — that you missed him like a phantom limb. That you’d made a terrible, irreversible mistake. Because somewhere between leaving his apartment that morning and the long, lonely nights that followed, you’d come to understand the truth you had been too scared to name.

You were in love with Sukuna Itadori.

And you ruined it.

You tried to distract yourself. Went out with friends, picked up extra shifts at work, said yes when your friend Shoko set you up with a friend of a friend — Satoru Gojo, of all people. Tall, loud, handsome in a way that was almost annoying. Satoru flirted with everyone, grinning and winking and flashing that ridiculous smile, but when it came to you, he was... distracted. Detached. Like you were just another face in the crowd. It didn’t take long for you to realize that you didn’t feel anything when you looked at him. Nothing like the way your heart used to stutter traitorously when Sukuna so much as glanced your way. But still — still — you forced yourself to try. Forced the smiles, the laughter, the dates that left you hollow and aching. Maybe you could fake your way into forgetting. And then came Shoko’s birthday.

The bar was crowded, lights low and throbbing, the bass vibrating up through your feet. You clutched your drink, feeling awkward and out of place, even surrounded by familiar faces. Shoko was laughing at something Geto had said, Utahime was already a few drinks in, Satoru was chatting up a group of girls by the bar, his arm slung carelessly around the shoulders of one blonde who was practically draped over him. You sat at the edge of the booth, eyes tracing the rim of your glass, wishing you were anywhere else.

And then — you felt it.

A weight. A shift in the air.

You looked up, heart lurching, and there he was.

Sukuna.

He stood just inside the doorway, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jacket, his gaze sweeping the room — and landing on you. For a moment, neither of you moved. God, he looked good — too good — jeans slung low on his hips, black t-shirt stretching over broad shoulders, tattoos peeking from under the collar. His hair was a little longer than you remembered, a little messier, like he hadn’t bothered to tame it. But it was his eyes that gutted you — the way they softened and sharpened all at once when they found you.

You dropped your gaze quickly, cheeks burning, fingers tightening around your glass. Sukuna moved through the bar, but not toward you. He exchanged greetings with a few people, clapped Geto on the shoulder, nodded at Nanami — but he didn’t come near you. He hovered at the edges, drink in hand, talking, laughing — but every so often, you could feel his eyes on you. And you hated how small you felt under his gaze. Satoru finally made his way back to the table, sliding into the booth beside you with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His hand brushed your thigh under the table — casual, thoughtless — and you flinched before you could stop yourself.

Sukuna saw.

Of course he saw.

You stole a glance at him, heart sinking. His mouth was a hard, thin line, his jaw tight. He took a long pull from his drink, knuckles white around the glass. You looked away quickly, shame curdling in your stomach. You didn’t know what to say. How to apologize for pushing him away, for pretending you could replace him with someone else, for being too cowardly to admit what you felt.

So you said nothing.

And neither did he.

An hour passed, maybe more. You laughed when it was expected, sipped your drink, nodded along to conversations you didn’t hear. Satoru flirted shamelessly with other women even with you by his side, and you smiled, but it felt like your skin didn’t fit right.

Eventually, Sukuna finished his drink, set the glass down with a quiet thunk, and without a word to anyone, he left. You watched him go, throat tight, heart a dull, hollow ache. He didn’t look back. And for the first time in a long, long time, you realized what it felt like to lose something you never really had the courage to hold onto.

A month passed. The kind that dragged its feet, each day stretching thin and brittle, as if time itself had taken on the same hollow ache sitting in the cradle of your chest. You tried to busy yourself, tried to sew patches over the gaping emptiness — work, friends, errands — but nothing quite fit, nothing quite stuck.

You hadn’t seen him since Shoko’s birthday. You hadn’t expected to, and then one rainy afternoon, you wandered into a small coffee shop tucked away from the chaos of the city — the kind of place that always smelled faintly of cinnamon and burnt espresso, the windows fogged up from the inside, the quiet hum of conversations filling the air like soft static. You didn’t expect anything more from the day. Just a drink to warm your hands and maybe a table in the corner where you could disappear for a while. But life — or fate, or whatever cruel thing that liked to tug your heartstrings — had other plans.

Because there, sitting alone near the window, was Sukuna Itadori.

He was hunched over a worn paperback book, one hand cradling a mug, his hair messier than usual, like he hadn’t bothered taming it before stepping out. He wore a black hoodie, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the faintest hint of ink peeking out. His expression was neutral, almost bored, but there was a certain softness to the way he watched the rain snake lazy trails down the glass. You stood there too long, blinking, caught between turning around and slipping back out the door and the invisible thread pulling you toward him.

Maybe he sensed it — that particular brand of quiet that always seemed to form around you — because his gaze flicked up from the page, sharp and immediate.

Your eyes met, and for a moment, the coffee shop fell away. He blinked once, twice, and then sat back, closing the book without marking the page, his hand curling loosely around the mug. He didn’t smile. Neither did you. But he nodded — barely, almost imperceptibly — in acknowledgment. You forced your legs to move, closing the distance between you with careful steps. As you neared his table, the awkwardness coiled tight in your stomach, sticky and raw.

“Hey,” you said, voice thinner than you intended. “Hey,” Sukuna echoed, slow, like he was tasting the word. His eyes roamed your face, not hurried, but thorough — like he was cataloging the changes the last 3 months had carved into you. You hesitated, one hand fiddling with the strap of your bag. “Mind if I—?” You gestured vaguely to the chair across from him. Sukuna leaned back, casual, and shrugged. “Be my guest.” You sat down carefully, setting your bag at your feet, the scrape of the chair too loud in the quiet. For a moment, neither of you spoke. You busied yourself with peeling the cardboard sleeve off your coffee cup, pretending not to feel the weight of his gaze.

“So…” Sukuna drawled after a beat, tapping his finger against the rim of his mug. “How’s Satoru?” You flinched — just barely, but he caught it. Of course he did. “We’re not together,” you said, forcing the words out with a brittle smile. “Wasn’t really anything serious, anyway.” Sukuna hummed, low and noncommittal. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, mug cradled in both hands. You picked at the sleeve, rolling it tighter. “How’ve you been?”

“Same old,” he said, voice easy, but there was an edge to it, a tiredness tucked into the words. “Work, gym, trying not to get into fights at bars. The usual.” You smiled — a real one this time — soft and fleeting.

The tension between you eased, just a fraction. Enough for you to take a breath without it catching in your throat. Conversation stumbled at first — small, cautious. You asked about his work, he asked about yours. You talked about mundane things — a new show you’d been watching, a bad haircut he’d gotten but refused to admit was bad, the city’s endless construction, and somewhere along the way, it began to feel… familiar. Like slipping into an old sweater you thought you’d lost — a little worn, a little frayed, but still fitting better than anything else. You laughed — really laughed — at something he said, and Sukuna’s mouth twitched into a grin, quick and reluctant, like it snuck up on him. His eyes crinkled at the corners, that boyish, easy warmth you hadn’t realized you’d missed slamming into you like a freight train.

But underneath it — underneath the jokes and the easy rhythm you fell back into — there was something else. A tension. A heaviness.

Something unspoken, coiling tight between you, humming beneath every glance, every brush of fingers when you both reached for the sugar at the same time.

You felt it.

You knew he felt it too —

Saw it in the way his gaze lingered just a moment too long on your mouth, the way his hands fidgeted with the handle of his mug, the way he smiled but didn’t quite meet your eyes. You both pretended not to notice.

The rain outside slowed to a lazy drizzle, the world beyond the window blurring soft and gray. The coffee shop buzzed on around you — cups clinking, the whir of the espresso machine, the quiet murmur of conversations — but the bubble around you and Sukuna remained fragile and intact. You fiddled with the sleeve of your cup again. “It’s nice,” you said, quieter now, “talking like this. It’s been… a while.”

Sukuna nodded, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, voice low, rough. “It has.” You stared down at your coffee, pulse thudding. You thought about all the things you wanted to say — I missed you. I’m sorry. I’m in love with you and I didn’t realize it until it was too late. But you swallowed them down, bitter and burning, and said nothing, and neither did he.

Instead, Sukuna leaned back, stretching his arms behind his head, the fabric of his hoodie pulling tight across his chest. He yawned, lazy and exaggerated, and the corner of his mouth quirked in a smirk when he caught you looking. “Same old you,” he said, and there was fondness buried under the teasing, so faint it barely brushed the surface. You rolled your eyes, but smiled — a real smile this time, soft and a little sad. The silence that settled between you wasn’t uncomfortable now. It was heavy, yes — full of all the things you couldn’t say — but it wasn’t suffocating. It was familiar. Worn-in. The kind of silence that only exists between two people who know each other too well. Sukuna glanced at his watch, then drained the last of his coffee. He set the mug down, the scrape loud against the table’s worn wood.

“I should head out,” he said, and there was something reluctant in the words, like he didn’t really want to. You nodded, standing up too, and for a second, you stood there awkwardly, both hesitating. It would be so easy to reach out — to bridge the distance, to say the words lingering heavy and unsaid.

But you didn’t.

You offered him a small, tentative smile. “It was good seeing you.” Sukuna’s eyes softened — just a fraction — and he nodded. “Yeah. You too, sweetheart.” The word was soft, almost automatic, but it hit you like a punch to the gut. He left first, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, head ducked against the misting rain. You watched him go, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft chime.

You stood there for a moment longer, staring at the empty doorway, the ghost of his smile still lingering in the air. You didn’t know what was going to happen next. But you knew — deep down, aching and inevitable — that this wasn’t over.

Not yet.

Not by a long shot.

[Sukuna Itadori 🤡] 9:43 PM Sukuna sends a meme: A cartoon skeleton sitting at a desk with the caption — [“Me waiting for the love of my life to realize I’m right here.”]

You stare at it for a long moment, your thumb hovering over the screen. Your heart thuds a slow, uncertain beat.

You: lol what are you trying to say, Itadori

Sukuna: 🤷‍♂️ just thought it was funny

You: sure you did

Sukuna: relax, sweetheart not everything’s about you

You snort, biting your lip to keep from smiling too wide. Your fingers move before your brain can catch up.

You: you’re the one sending skeletons crying about love, not me

Sukuna: love is fake anyway capitalist scam like valentines day

You: lmao bitter much?

Sukuna: nah just realistic

You hesitate, staring at the blinking cursor.

You: maybe you just haven’t found the right person

A beat passes. Then another. You chew the inside of your cheek, immediately regretting how soft that sounds, how close to the thing you’re both dancing around. But Sukuna answers, after a pause just long enough to make your stomach twist:

Sukuna: maybe

Another pause. A longer one this time.

Sukuna: or maybe i already found her and she’s an idiot

Your breath catches, fingertips going cold even as heat blooms in your chest.

You: sounds like her loss

You mean it to be light, teasing — but it feels heavy when it lands. Too heavy.

Sukuna: nah pretty sure it’s mine

You squeeze your phone tighter, heart tripping over itself.

You: you’re being weird tonight

Sukuna: yeah must be the rain

You look out the window, the streetlights haloed in mist, the pavement slick and gleaming. You think about the coffee shop, the way his mouth had twitched into a smile, the way his eyes had softened even when he was pretending they hadn’t. You think about how you miss him. How you always have. You type, erase, type again.

You: i don’t think i ever said sorry for disappearing

The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Reappears.

Sukuna: you didn’t have to

You: i did tho

Sukuna: doesn’t matter you’re here now, aren’t you?

You blink back the sting behind your eyes, pressing your knuckles against your mouth.

You: yeah i’m here

Another pause.

Sukuna: good

It’s stupid, how much that one word settles something inside you. How it makes your chest loosen, your lungs expand like you’ve been holding your breath for months. You scroll back up to the meme, the dumb skeleton at his desk, waiting. Maybe you weren’t as far away as you thought. Your phone buzzes again.

Sukuna: coffee again sometime?

Your mouth curves before you can stop it.

You: yeah i’d like that

Sukuna: cool maybe this time you’ll actually finish your drink instead of playing with the sleeve for an hour

You: no promises i have nervous habits

Sukuna: yeah i know

You stare at the last message, feeling that quiet, steady ache. But softer this time — less like a wound, more like something healing.

You don’t know what’s going to happen next. But for the first time in a long time, you think you might be ready to find out.

Shoko’s house was already humming with noise by the time you arrived — the thrum of bass under cheap speakers, the low buzz of voices, the scent of alcohol and something sweet drifting through the open windows. It wasn’t a huge gathering — just close friends, a few of their plus-ones, and a handful of strangers Shoko had deemed cool enough to invite. You wore something simple, comfortable, but still cute enough to feel like you tried: jeans, a black top that hugged your curves, hair brushed out and skin glowing faintly under the low light. You spotted Sukuna almost immediately, posted up by the kitchen counter, a drink in hand, easy smirk on his mouth as he leaned back and bantered with Geto. His eyes caught yours across the room — a flicker of recognition, something soft flashing across his face — but he didn’t move toward you. Not yet.

It was fine. You didn’t need him to.

You wandered toward the drink table, poured yourself a splash of wine, and tried to relax. You chatted with Utahime for a while, laughed at Shoko’s half-drunken jokes, smiled when Gojo threw an arm around your shoulders and made some ridiculous comment about how you were too good for any of the losers here, when he was once one of those losers who fumbled you. It was easy, for a little while. Warm and light.

And then — him.

You didn’t know his name. Didn’t care to. Some random guy you vaguely recognized as a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend. Tallish, broad-shouldered, with the kind of smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He sidled up to you near the patio door, drink sloshing slightly as he leaned in too close. “Hey,” he said, flashing teeth. “Haven’t seen you around before.” You gave a polite smile, stepping back just slightly. “Yeah, I guess.” He didn’t take the hint. “You here alone?”

“No,” you said quickly, glancing toward the kitchen where Sukuna still lingered, but now his eyes were trained on you — watchful, unreadable. “I’m with friends.” The guy chuckled, low and smug, and took another step closer. “You’re cute,” he said, bold now, breath reeking faintly of beer. “Real cute. Bet you’re real fun too, huh?” Your skin crawled. You shifted again, trying to create space, but he only moved closer, cornering you against the wall with his body. “Come on,” he said, voice dropping, oily and insistent. “Don’t be shy.”

You opened your mouth, heart thudding, ready to tell him to back off — but then, suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder, firm and unforgiving. “Move,” Sukuna said, voice low and lethal. The guy blinked, turning half around, and laughed — a sharp, humorless sound. “Who the fuck are you?” Sukuna didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. He leaned in, voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. “I said move. You deaf or just stupid?” The guy sneered, sizing Sukuna up. “The fuck’s your problem? She didn’t say no.”

“She didn’t have to,” Sukuna said, and there was a heat in his voice now, a crackle like a storm gathering. The guy’s gaze flicked over you, dismissive and mean, and his mouth twisted into something cruel. “Whatever, man. Not like I’m desperate. She’s a fat bitch anyway.”

The words hit harder than they should have — a slap you didn’t see coming — and for a moment, all you could do was stand there, frozen, feeling the heat rush to your cheeks, your ears, your chest. You heard the crack before you even registered the movement.

Sukuna’s fist connecting with the guy’s jaw — sharp, brutal, final. The guy staggered back, crashing into the patio door, and the whole party seemed to still, breath held on a knife’s edge. Sukuna didn’t stop there. He followed up with another punch, sending the guy sprawling to the floor, cursing and clutching his face. Shoko was already moving, Geto too, trying to break it up before it got worse, but Sukuna wasn’t looking at them. He was looking at you. You, with your fists clenched so tight your nails bit into your palms, tears burning hot and unwelcome at the corners of your eyes.

You turned without thinking, without breathing, and fled. You barely heard Shoko calling your name as you pushed through the crowd, barely registered the cool slap of night air against your face as you stumbled onto the street. You walked fast, too fast, the tears blurring your vision, shame and humiliation knotting in your stomach so tightly you thought you might be sick. Home. You just needed to get home. You fumbled with your keys, heart slamming against your ribs, and finally — finally — got the door open. You slammed it behind you, slid down to the floor, and let the tears come hot and fast, ugly and gasping. You weren’t crying because of what the guy said — not really.

You were crying because it was true. Because some part of you had always believed it was true. Because Sukuna had seen — had heard — and now there was no taking it back. Your phone buzzed in your pocket, once, twice, three times. You didn’t look. You couldn’t.

Across the city, Sukuna sat in his car, parked outside his own apartment, hands clenched so tight around the steering wheel his knuckles ached. His lip was split, bleeding sluggishly, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t meant for it to go that way. Hadn’t meant to lose control.

But seeing the way you flinched, the way your face crumpled, the way you bolted like you couldn’t stand to be near him — it broke something inside him.

He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, staring out the windshield at nothing. He wanted to call you. Text you. Show up at your door and tell you that guy didn’t know shit — that you were beautiful, radiant, that he’d loved you from the moment you crashed into his life with your shy smiles and your too-loud laugh and your stubborn, bleeding heart. But he didn’t. Because what good would it do?

He was the reason you were crying right now. So instead, he sat there in the dark, bleeding and furious and helpless. And for the first time in a long time, Sukuna Itadori didn’t know what the hell to do.

You sat crumpled on the floor by the door, knees pulled tight to your chest, your whole body trembling with the weight of everything you had shoved down for so long. The room was dark except for the faint glow of a streetlight spilling through the window, casting long, lonely shadows across the floorboards. You wiped at your face with trembling hands, but it was useless. The tears kept coming, thick and hot, the kind you couldn't reason away. The kind that poured from somewhere deeper than embarrassment, deeper than hurt.

You tried to breathe — in, out, in — but the ache in your chest only tightened. You thought of Sukuna. The way his fists had connected without hesitation, the way his face had looked right before you fled — wild, wrecked, something raw burning in his eyes. You thought about how you’d pushed him away, how you’d convinced yourself it was safer to pretend you didn’t feel anything at all than to risk what was so obviously real between you. You pressed the heels of your palms to your eyes, breathing hard. You couldn’t do this anymore.

You needed to talk to him. You needed to say it — all of it — even if it made a mess, even if it ripped you apart. You pushed yourself to your feet, legs shaky but determined, and grabbed your jacket. You didn’t even bother wiping your face this time — you didn’t care how you looked. You just needed to find him.

You flung the door open, heart hammering against your ribs, only to stumble to a halt. Because there — standing under the flickering porch light, rain-damp and tense, hands shoved deep into his pockets, jaw clenched so tight you could see the strain even in the shadows — was Sukuna. He looked up as the door swung open, and for a moment, neither of you moved. The sight of him nearly undid you — the split lip, the swelling darkening beneath his eye, the tight line of his mouth. His hair was damp, sticking up in unruly tufts like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. His chest heaved with the force of the breath he released. He won the fight. You could tell. But looking at him, he didn't seem victorious. He looked wrecked. And you — you couldn’t hold it in anymore.

A sob broke free from your throat, raw and sudden, and before you could stop yourself, you were moving, stumbling into him, burying your face in his chest. His arms came up, hesitating for only a second before they closed around you, crushing and warm, anchoring you to him. He smelled like rain and soap and something familiar you had missed so badly it hurt. You clutched fistfuls of his hoodie, trembling against him, the tears soaking into the fabric as he held you tighter, as if he could hold you together by force alone.

“I’m sorry,” you gasped against him, words thick and messy. “I’m so sorry.” Sukuna said nothing, but his hands — rough, calloused — rubbed slow circles over your back, steady and grounding. You pulled back just enough to look up at him, to see the way his brow furrowed, the way his mouth softened when he saw the tears still tracking down your cheeks. “I was scared,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I thought if I kept my distance, if I pretended it didn’t matter, I wouldn’t get hurt. I thought I was protecting myself.” He cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear with infinite gentleness, and shook his head, something broken in his eyes. “You were never just my friend, Sukuna,” you whispered, the words finally spilling free. “I tried to lie to myself. I tried so hard. But I love you. I’m in love with you, and I have been for so long it feels like it’s a part of me.” You shuddered, chest heaving, but you forced yourself to keep going. “I’m sorry I was too much of a coward to tell you sooner. I’m sorry I hurt you.”

For a moment, all you could hear was the rain, soft and relentless against the pavement. And then — slowly, as if you might shatter if he moved too fast — Sukuna leaned down, his forehead pressing against yours. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, cradling you like something precious. “Say it again,” he murmured, voice low and rough, barely more than a breath against your skin.

You closed your eyes, letting the words fall from your lips, sure and steady now. “I love you.” A sound broke from his throat — something raw and unguarded — and then he was kissing you.

It wasn’t the careful, tentative kiss of that night months ago. It wasn’t the playful, teasing kisses he used to drop on your cheek when you won a stupid bet, or the drunken ones you pretended to laugh off. This was different. This was him pouring every unspoken word, every buried feeling, every desperate, aching want into you. His mouth was warm and insistent, his hands greedy as they pulled you closer, closer, as if he could mold you to him, erase all the distance you’d ever put between you. You kissed him back with everything you had, tears still slipping from the corners of your eyes, but neither of you cared.

You were home.

When he finally pulled back, he kept you close, his nose brushing yours, his breath mingling with yours in the small space between you.

“I love you too,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “God, I’ve loved you forever.” You let out a broken laugh, fingers curling into his damp hoodie. “I thought I lost you,” you murmured. “You couldn’t lose me if you tried,” he said, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth. You stayed there, wrapped up in each other, the world outside falling away, the rain soft against the roof, the air thick with the salt of your tears and the sweetness of everything finally, finally said. It wasn’t perfect. You were both bruised — inside and out — but for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel alone in the ache.

You had him.

And he had you.

Maybe that was enough.

Maybe it was everything.

Sukuna didn’t let you go. His arm stayed tight around your waist as he nudged you gently back inside, the door swinging shut behind you with a soft click. The hum of the city outside, the patter of the rain, all faded until there was only the quiet thrum of two heartbeats, side by side. The apartment was dim, but neither of you reached for the lights. It felt right this way — cloaked in shadow, wrapped in the softness of confession and the still-lingering ache of everything that had almost been lost.

Sukuna tugged you toward the couch, and you went willingly, your hand still curled tight in his hoodie. He sat down first, spreading his legs slightly apart, and with a gentle tug, guided you between them, onto his lap. You settled there, knees bracketing his hips, your hands finding the warm, solid breadth of his chest. His heart beat steady under your palms, grounding you. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Sukuna’s hand found your thigh, calloused thumb tracing slow circles into your jeans, his other hand resting heavy and sure against the small of your back. His touch was firm, but not demanding — just there, an anchor in the stillness. You shifted slightly, your nose brushing against the curve of his jaw, and that’s when you really saw it — the split in his lip, the bloom of bruising around his eye, the faint scrapes along his knuckles. You frowned, brushing your fingertips lightly along the cut on his mouth.

“You’re hurt,” you whispered, the words trembling more with guilt than concern. He smirked, that lazy, crooked thing you’d missed so much. “You should see the other guy.” You tried to smile, but it wobbled. Your hand slid to his bruised cheek, cupping it carefully, your thumb stroking over his skin in apology. “I didn’t want you to fight for me,” you said quietly. “I just wanted—” You swallowed, throat tight. “I just wanted you to be there.”

“I was,” he said, voice low. “I am. Always.”

The sincerity in his tone made your chest ache in the best and worst ways. You leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth, careful of the cut. His breath hitched, but he didn’t move — just let you, patient and still. When you pulled back, he was watching you with that look again — the one that stripped you bare, that saw every flaw, every crack, and wanted you anyway.

“I meant it,” you said, voice steadier now. “I love you.”

“I know,” he murmured, the faintest smile ghosting his lips. “You’re not exactly subtle, sweetheart.” You huffed a quiet laugh, pressing your forehead against his. His hand slid up your back, fingers threading into your hair, cradling you close. “What happens now?” you asked, voice barely more than a breath.

He was quiet for a moment, his thumb stroking the back of your neck, slow and steady. “Now,” he said finally, “I’m gonna take you out on a real date. No pretending, no bullshit. Just me and you.” You closed your eyes, breathing him in, the scent of rain and sweat and something him — familiar and steady and real. “And after that?” you whispered. “After that,” he murmured against your skin, “I’m gonna keep showing up. Every day. Every night. As long as you’ll have me.” Your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, holding on tight. “Forever?” you asked, half teasing, half hopeful. He leaned back just enough to look at you, his gaze serious, molten in the low light.

“Yeah,” he said, no hesitation. “Forever.”

The word hung between you, soft and solid, more a vow than a promise. You kissed him again, deeper this time, and he kissed you back like he’d been waiting his whole life for this — for you. His hands roamed your back, your sides, never straying too far, just holding, just memorizing the way you felt pressed against him. When you finally broke apart, you stayed there, tangled together on the couch, the rain a gentle whisper against the window. You didn’t need to say anything else.

The hard part was over. The fear, the doubt, the long months of silence and missed chances — all of it was behind you now.

What was left was this: the quiet, steady certainty of two people who had found their way back to each other, against every odds.

Sukuna pressed a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the tip of your nose, murmuring nonsense under his breath, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

You smiled, eyes fluttering shut, your heart finally, finally at peace, and there, in the hush of the storm and the soft cradle of his arms, you knew — this was just the beginning.

The best kind of beginning.

#anime fanfic #fanfiction #ryomen sukuna #sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna ryomen smut #sukuna smut #jjk sukuna #sukuna ryomen #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #jujutsu sukuna #ryomen sukuna x reader #ryomen x reader #jjk ryomen #jujutsu kaisen ryomen

158 notes · View notes

suku-enthusiasts · 2 days ago

Text

Were Just Friends || s. ryomen - (one shots)

❛ ❜ Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader (one shot series)

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. smut . anxiety. major fluff

main masterlist

#anime fanfic #fanfiction #ryomen sukuna #sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna ryomen smut #sukuna smut #jjk sukuna #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #sukuna ryomen #jujutsu sukuna #true form sukuna #ryoumen sukuna #ryomen sukuna smut #ryomen x reader #jjk ryomen #jujutsu kaisen ryomen #ryomen sukuna x reader

103 notes · View notes

suku-enthusiasts · 3 days ago

Text

chapter seven "Too Sweet To Be Mad" || h. higuruma

ꕥ Hiromi higuruma x f!reader (on going)

❝I would never have sex with you, you big nose jerk.” That was the last thing you said to your High School friend (nemesis) Hiromi. Over 5 years later, with your PhD in Hand, you meet him unexpectedly at your friend Shoko’s graduation dinner. The lawyer’s eyes caught yours, a smile tugging on his lips. “Well aren’t you a sight to be seen.” The whirlwind first love of yours is about to send you straight to a state of bliss, & Hiromi is in the drivers seat, taking you straight there.❞

cw ; smut. lots of fluff. angst.

word count ; 3.9k

masterlist | series masterlist

1:07 a.m the next day

You didn’t even remember the walk over. You just knew that lying in bed felt like drowning in thoughts. You tossed. Turned. Replayed the argument over and over like a movie on loop with no pause button. Each line, each expression, the way his mouth tightened when you snapped at him—the way his hand fell off the back of the couch like he was letting go of something—burned into your memory. You couldn’t take it anymore.

It was raining again, soft and misty, more fog than water. You had thrown on a hoodie over your pajamas, shoes untied, hair a mess, anxiety pressed heavy in your chest. Your knuckles hovered over his door for a second too long before finally knocking.

Softly.

Once.

Twice.

A shuffle behind the door. A pause. Then the lock turned, slowly, cautiously, and the door opened. Hiromi stood there, barefoot and half-swaying in a loose long-sleeve shirt and drawstring pants. His eyes were red-rimmed, face tired—more than tired. His hair was tousled. One arm rested against the doorframe for balance. The first thing you noticed was the faint scent of whiskey on his breath.

“...You came,” he said hoarsely, as if it physically hurt to say. Your heart dropped. “Hiromi…” His lips quirked in a crooked, sad excuse for a smile. “If this is a hallucination, I’m not gonna be thrilled when I wake up.” You reached forward gently, brushing damp hair off his forehead. “You’ve been drinking.” He leaned into your hand just slightly. “Just a little. Lawyer’s dose.” Your throat tightened. “Can I come in?”

He moved aside without answering. You stepped in, shutting the door softly behind you. The apartment was dim, a single lamp left on in the corner, casting soft shadows. A mostly empty glass and a half-finished bottle sat on the coffee table. Papers scattered. A blanket thrown over the armrest. “You weren’t answering your phone,” you said, your voice thin.

“I didn’t want to say anything I’d regret,” he murmured. “Didn’t trust myself not to.” You looked at him—really looked at him. His expression, his posture, everything about him felt exhausted. Not from work. From you. From the ache of wondering what he’d done wrong. From not knowing if you’d come back.

“I was scared,” you admitted, voice cracking. “And I took it out on you. I’m sorry, Hiromi.” His gaze met yours, steady even through the haze of liquor. “I wasn’t trying to push you.” - “I know,” you whispered. “I just didn’t know how to handle someone wanting me like that. Wanting to keep me.” He didn’t reply right away. He just looked at you, eyes tired and glassy. You reached for his hand. “Let me help you. Come on.” You led him gently toward the bathroom, turning on the light with a soft click. He winced at the brightness, grumbling under his breath, but let you guide him to sit on the closed toilet lid. You grabbed a warm washcloth, kneeling in front of him.

With delicate care, you ran the cloth over his face—his jawline, his neck, wiping away the long night. Your thumb brushed under his eyes, over the dark circles. “You didn’t sleep,” you murmured. “Didn’t want to,” he replied. You said nothing, just kept your movements gentle. He stayed quiet, watching you in silence like you were a dream he didn’t dare speak aloud in case it vanished. After a few minutes, you tugged him toward the bedroom. He followed wordlessly. You helped him into bed, pulling the covers over him with slow hands. But before you could leave his side, his fingers caught yours—firm, desperate.

“Stay,” he rasped. You nodded. You climbed in beside him, still fully clothed, curling into his side as he turned into you. His arm slid around your waist, holding you close, forehead pressed against your temple. He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since you walked out. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he whispered, slurring slightly but not enough to hide the emotion. “I know,” you whispered back, your voice shaking. “I was just scared already. I thought maybe we’d ruin it.” He pulled you in tighter. “It’s not ruined.” Your throat closed, tears burning again, hot and shameful. You buried your face in his chest. “You’re the first person I’ve ever felt this with. I didn’t know how to trust it.” Hiromi kissed the top of your head, slowly, his lips lingering. “Then let’s take it slow. Together. No more running, okay?” You nodded, tears dampening the fabric of his shirt.

“I’m here,” you whispered.

He pulled the blankets tighter around you both, his breathing slowing, becoming heavy and rhythmic as he finally drifted into sleep. And for the first time in 24 hours, so did you. Wrapped in the arms of someone who stayed.

The light in the apartment was soft and golden, filtering through the thin curtains in Hiromi’s bedroom, casting lazy sun patterns across the rumpled bed. Hiromi stirred slowly. He blinked up at the ceiling, wincing as a dull throb pulsed behind his eyes. His mouth was dry, his limbs heavy with the grogginess of cheap whiskey and too much emotion. For a second, he didn’t remember falling asleep. Then he felt the faint warmth beside him. Your side of the bed was empty now, but your presence still lingered—your scent in the sheets, the soft dip in the mattress where you had curled against him hours before. He turned his head slowly. A folded hoodie sat on the pillow where you’d rested, and the sound of soft humming and the gentle clink of pans filtered in from the kitchen.

You stayed.

Despite everything, you stayed. Dragging a hand down his face, Hiromi pushed himself upright, groaning a little. He took his time getting to the bathroom, brushing his teeth, rinsing his face. By the time he shuffled out toward the kitchen, his hair was damp from a quick rinse, and he was wearing an old T-shirt and sweats. The smell of eggs and butter hit him first—then something a little sweeter. Pancakes? You were at the stove, still in your pajamas, humming quietly under your breath, hair pulled up in a lazy bun, flipping pancakes like it was second nature. You looked… soft. At home. Like you belonged there, barefoot and sleepy-eyed in his too-big apartment. His throat tightened. You turned when you heard him step in, offering a gentle smile. “Morning, sunshine.” Hiromi smirked weakly. “Is that what I look like? Because I feel like roadkill." You laughed. “You look slightly better than roadkill. More like… road-weary. With a splash of regret.” He groaned and rubbed his temples. “Accurate.”

“Sit,” you said, nodding toward the barstools at the counter. “I made a hangover breakfast.” Hiromi obeyed, still quiet, watching you with something close to reverence. You poured him a glass of water, then placed two pancakes and a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him. You even added a tiny drizzle of honey on top of the pancakes, just how he liked it. “Thanks,” he muttered, voice rough with sleep and vulnerability. You settled across from him, plate in hand, but only picked at your food. You were quiet for a few moments, the soft clinking of forks and the occasional sip of coffee the only sound between you. Then you exhaled.

“I want to talk about something,” you said gently, but with intention. Hiromi looked up from his plate, instantly alert. “Okay.” You met his eyes, hands wrapped around your mug for comfort. “About… us. About what you said last night. Before.” He stayed silent, not wanting to push, his expression open. You swallowed, eyes lowering briefly to your plate. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what happened. And I know I kind of blew up on you… but it wasn’t about you. It was about me. About how scared I got.” Hiromi waited, patiently, sensing this was something you needed to say without interruption.

You continued, voice steady despite your nerves. “This is my first real relationship. You know that. And I keep trying to convince myself I’m fine, that I’ve got this under control. But the truth is, I don’t. I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to trust that something this good won’t just… fall apart.” You laughed softly, awkwardly. “And then you asked me to move in, and I panicked. Not because I don’t want to. But because it felt like such a big step, and I was already tiptoeing.” Hiromi’s gaze was warm, steady. “And now?” You drew in a breath. “Now… I think I do want to. Move in, I mean. I want to try. I want to wake up with you, and fall asleep next to you, and figure out how to do laundry together without fighting.” Hiromi’s lips twitched. “We will fight about it. I’m a laundry tyrant.”

“I believe that,” you said with a grin. “But still. I want to try. I just… I need to ask you something.” His brow rose slightly, curious but quiet. You hesitated for a second, then asked, “Where do you see this going? Us?” Hiromi put down his fork. That heavy, sleepy look disappeared, and something entirely different replaced it—something clear and sober and true. “I want to marry you,” he said, without a single stutter. Your breath caught. His voice was soft but firm. “Not tomorrow. Not in a rush. But that’s where I’m heading. I wouldn’t ask you to live with me if I didn’t see you as my future. I’m not a trial-run kind of guy.” He reached across the counter and took your hand. “I want late nights and bad TV and mismatched furniture. I want burnt toast and your hair clogging the drain and having to argue over what kind of couch to buy. I want you. Not just for now. For the rest of my life.” Your chest ached in the best possible way.

“And I know this is your first relationship,” he added. “So I’m not gonna ask you to promise me forever tonight. But I need you to know that I’m not going anywhere. When things get hard, when you get scared—I stay.” You stared at him, mouth parting slightly, the weight of his words settling into your bones. You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you stood slowly, walked around the counter, and sat beside him, curling into his side with your head on his shoulder. “I’m terrified,” you whispered. “I know,” he said, kissing the top of your head. “But I think I want to build a life with you.” His arm wrapped around you. “We’ll build it slow. One shelf at a time.” You smiled. “Okay, but you’re not allowed to be the only one assembling IKEA furniture.” Hiromi groaned. “So we’re already fighting. Excellent.” You both laughed, and just like that, something soft and new settled into place between you. The kind of quiet joy that came not from perfection, but from choosing each other—even when it was hard. Even when it was scary.

The kitchen was behind you, two half-finished plates of breakfast still cooling on the counter. You’d been sitting wrapped in Hiromi’s arms for almost an hour, barely moving, just whispering about everything and nothing. Plans. Fears. Hopes. You couldn’t remember the last time you felt so calm in someone else’s space—let alone in their arms.

It wasn’t perfect. But it was real.

Hiromi nudged his nose against your temple and murmured, “Come on. You stayed the night. Might as well get the full experience—hot water, real soap, and my tragic shampoo collection.” You gave a soft laugh, still curled against his side. “That sounds like a trap.” He smiled. “It is. I’m luring you in with steam and coconut-scented manipulation.” You followed him, hands laced, to the bathroom. It was modest but clean, sunlight flooding in through a small frosted window. The mirror was slightly fogged already from when he’d rinsed off earlier. You stepped inside as he turned on the water, testing it with his hand until it was just warm enough—gentle, not scalding. Hiromi turned to you then, watching your face, his expression softer than you’d ever seen it. “You okay?” You nodded slowly. “Still feel safe?” he asked. You nodded again. “With you? Always.”

He took a small step forward, his fingers brushing against the hem of your shirt. “Can I take this off?” Your heartbeat thudded loud in your ears. You nodded again, more certain this time. Hiromi undressed you slowly, piece by piece, like each article of clothing deserved a moment. There was no rush. No pressure. Just warmth, and the careful way his fingers traced over your sides, the way his eyes never left yours as he pulled your shirt over your head, letting it fall to the floor.

Once you were both undressed, he stepped back, drinking in the sight of you—not with hunger, but admiration. Like he was memorizing the shape of your vulnerability and cherishing it. He took your hand again and helped you step into the shower first. The water cascaded over your skin, warm and grounding. You leaned into it, eyes closing, and then felt him step in behind you.

He reached for the body wash first, lathering it in his hands. “Turn around,” he said softly. You did, and he began to wash you—slow, purposeful movements, massaging your shoulders, your arms, your back. His hands knew when to be firm and when to be featherlight. He worked the soap into your skin as though he had all the time in the world, his fingertips moving in slow, circular motions that left goosebumps in their wake.

When he turned you back to face him, his hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb stroking your temple. He leaned in, kissing you softly—once, twice—then deeper, more purposeful. Your hands slid up his chest, feeling the warm slickness of his skin, the tension in his shoulders finally beginning to melt. “You’re still shaking,” he murmured between kisses. “Not from fear,” you whispered back. His lips brushed your jaw, then your neck, kissing a trail to your collarbone. “Tell me if you want to stop, okay?” You nodded, breath catching. “I don’t want to stop.”

Hiromi knelt slowly, the water washing down over both of you, his hands gliding down your hips, then back up to hold your waist steady. He looked up at you from below, hair wet, eyes reverent. “You’re beautiful,” he said, like it was a truth etched in stone. You bit your lip, trembling slightly as his mouth pressed a kiss to your hipbone. “Hiromi—”

“Let me make you feel good,” he whispered, voice low and tender. “Let me take care of you.” You rested your hand on his shoulder, nodding again. He shifted, guiding one of your legs over his shoulder with care, ensuring you were steady, supported by the wall behind you and his firm hands at your thighs. Then he leaned in and kissed you again—this time lower.

The first touch of his mouth made you gasp. The second made your knees nearly buckle. But Hiromi was patient. Slow. Worshipful. He kissed you between your thighs like he was trying to memorize you from the inside out. His tongue moved with expert rhythm, slow and unhurried, drawing sighs and whimpers from your lips as he held you up like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. And to him, you were. Each kiss, each flick of his tongue, was a question: Is this okay? Do you feel good? Are you safe with me? And with every shaky moan, every whispered “yes,” you told him: Yes. Yes. Yes.

When your release came, it was slow, molten, blooming outward like the warmth of the water, and you sagged into his hold with a soft cry, your fingers threading through his damp hair. He rose slowly, kissing your navel, your ribs, the valley between your breasts, your lips. You clung to him, dizzy and weak in the knees, your heart full to the brim. “You’re incredible,” you breathed against his mouth. He smiled, rubbing gentle circles into your back. “I just love you. That’s all.” You leaned your forehead against his, lips brushing. “I want to show you how much I love you too.” His voice was low, teasing but sincere. “Then we’ve got all the time in the world.”

You were still trembling in his arms, wrapped in the fog and warmth of the shower, heart fluttering like a bird behind your ribs. Hiromi didn’t rush you. He kissed you gently, lips brushing your cheek, your forehead, your temple. His hands ran soothingly down your back, tracing over your spine as though he was grounding you there with him, bringing you back to earth after lifting you so high. The spray of the water streamed down both your bodies, softening every breath, every movement. You felt weightless, tucked into his chest, your arms lazily draped over his shoulders. He was so close—heat, skin, heartbeat—and for a long moment, that was all you needed. But then he leaned in again, pressing his lips to your neck. And something shifted. It wasn’t fast, or even hungry. It was warm. Familiar. Intentional. Like gravity pulling you both forward into something inevitable. His hand cupped the side of your face, turning you gently so he could look you in the eyes. “You still feel okay?” he asked, his voice quiet beneath the sound of the water. You nodded. “More than okay.”

His thumb brushed your lower lip, eyes flicking between your gaze and your mouth. “Tell me if anything feels too fast.”

You smiled softly, touching your forehead to his. “I will. But I don’t want to slow down.” That was all he needed. He kissed you again—deeper this time, slower, like he was savoring every second. His hands explored your sides, hips, the small of your back, learning every inch of you with a kind of reverence that made your breath catch in your throat.

You leaned into him, rising on your toes to pull him even closer, and he took your unspoken signal with grace. His touch never lost its tenderness. Even when things deepened, even when your breathing turned heavier and your bodies pressed more tightly together, he never let go of that softness. It was the kind of passion that didn’t burn—it glowed.

He held you like you were precious. Like he’d never, ever let go. When he lifted you slightly, guiding your back against the shower wall, the cool tile made you gasp—but he was there, mouth on your jaw, one hand behind your thigh, steadying you with the strength of someone who would never let you fall. “I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Always.”

And you believed him.

You clung to his shoulders, your fingers curling in his wet hair, gasping his name when his lips found your neck again, when the rhythm of your bodies aligned—slow, patient, deeply connected. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t perfect.

But it was real. And it was yours. Every movement felt like a promise: We’re going to figure this out. We’re going to build something lasting. I’ll be here when it’s hard. I’ll be here when it’s good. And when your forehead pressed against his, your lips brushing, the steam curling around both of you like a veil, you whispered, “I love you.”

Hiromi didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. “I love you too.” And even as the water began to cool, neither of you moved to shut it off.Because in that moment—two hearts, one breath—you weren’t rushing anywhere.

You had all the time in the world.

The water had finally gone lukewarm before either of you even noticed. Still, neither of you moved quickly. There was no rush—not anymore. Just the way your bodies fit together, the slow beat of your hearts still syncing in the steamy hush of the shower. Hiromi kissed your temple one last time before carefully reaching behind you to turn the water off. The sudden silence that followed felt almost sacred.

You stepped out first, careful on the wet tile, and he followed, grabbing a clean towel from the nearby rack. He didn’t say a word as he wrapped it around your shoulders, fingers brushing over your skin as he tucked the ends in, his touch soft like he was still memorizing you. Then he took another towel and began drying your hair gently, ruffling the ends and smoothing it out with slow, affectionate strokes. “You always do everything like it’s the most important thing in the world,” you murmured, smiling up at him through damp lashes. He chuckled, lifting one brow. “You are the most important thing in the world.”

The honesty in his voice made your chest ache. You watched him towel off next, sliding a fresh pair of sweatpants up his hips and reaching for a shirt. He tossed you one of his oversized tees without thinking—it smelled like him, faintly woodsy and clean—and you pulled it over your still-damp skin with a soft sigh, the hem nearly brushing your knees. He leaned back against the sink, arms folded, watching you with an easy, almost sleepy smile. “You look good like that,” he said.

“Like what?” “Like you live here.”

Your heart gave a small, nervous flutter, but this time, it wasn’t fear. It was something warmer. Softer. You padded into the bedroom, sitting on the edge of his bed while you towel-dried your legs and hair a bit more. He followed, pulling you between his knees, resting his hands on your thighs, thumbs making absent-minded circles on your skin. “You okay?” he asked again, his voice dropping into that low, intimate tone that always made you melt. You nodded. “More than okay.”

He leaned in and kissed your knee. “What are you thinking about?” You hesitated for a second, chewing your bottom lip. “Just… how normal this feels. How good it feels.” Hiromi lifted his brows, teasing. “Scary good?” You laughed, nudging his shoulder. “Yes. Terrifyingly good. Like, stupid good.” “Stupid good is my specialty.” You leaned forward and kissed him, quick and soft, then rested your forehead against his. “I think I’m ready to really try this with you. To live here. Or… live together.”

His hands stilled on your legs, then moved to your hips. “Yeah?” “Yeah,” you whispered. “But I need to be honest about my fears, too. About… losing myself. Or messing up. Or us getting too comfortable and forgetting why we fell in love in the first place.” Hiromi’s expression softened completely. He pressed a kiss to your cheek, then your shoulder.

“We’re going to mess up,” he said. “We’re going to forget little things sometimes. But I promise you, I’ll never forget you. Why I love you. Why you’re it for me.” You met his eyes, your own glassy. “Where do you see us? In the future? I know you said marriage,” He didn’t even hesitate. “Married. Happy. Annoyingly domestic. Maybe you steal my side of the bed and hog the blankets. Maybe I learn how to cook something that isn’t grilled cheese, and pancakes,” You laughed, watery and real.

He took your hands in his, lacing your fingers. “But always together. I want the long haul. If you want it, too.”

“I do,” you said softly. “I’m just scared.” “I know,” he replied. “I’ll be patient. But I’m not going anywhere, even when it’s hard.” You let the silence stretch between you—full of all the words you hadn’t said but now didn’t need to. And in the quiet warmth of the room, with Hiromi holding your hand and sunlight beginning to spill onto the rumpled sheets, it felt like something had finally settled inside you.

Not fear. But trust. And the beginning of something real.

#anime fanfic #fanfiction #hiromi higa #hiromi jjk #hiromi smut #higuruma hiromi #hiromi x reader #hiromi higuruma smut #higuruma #jujutsu kaisen

8 notes · View notes

suku-enthusiasts · 4 days ago

Text

Chapter Twelve || new life - s. ryomen

❛ ❜ Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader (on going)

❝ in the lands of gods and monsters, she was an angel, living with the King of Curses-

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol. hurt/trauma. smut . anxiety. death. graphic scenes

Word count ; 5.2k

main masterlist | series masterlist

The morning was heavy with humidity, the kind that clung to your skin and made the very air feel thick with anticipation. You’d barely managed a few hours of sleep, your belly round and tight, every movement uncomfortable. Sukuna had helped you sit up, massaging your swollen ankles with a tenderness only you ever saw from him. He'd kissed you deeply before leaving that morning. "Just one more day," he said, voice low as he nuzzled your cheek. "Then I’m done training Toji, and I’m yours forever. No more everyday visits to the estate. Just us." You’d smiled tiredly, fingers tracing the jagged lines of his jaw. “You better be.”

He kissed your belly, whispered something soft and secret to your child, then slipped out with a final glance. But not two hours later, a sharp, cramping pain ripped through your lower back and stomach — different from the false labor you’d been experiencing in the past few days.

It was time. “Ah—!” you gasped, curling forward as another contraction hit, stronger than the last. Your mother, who had been fussing over folding linens in the corner of your bedroom, turned sharply. “Is it—?” You nodded, breathless. “It’s starting.”

She sprang into action, calmer than you would’ve imagined. “Okay, come on. Let’s move you to the birthing room—slow and steady. We trained for this, baby. You’ve got this.” She helped you stand, one arm supporting your back, the other around your waist. Each step was agonizing as she led you to the smaller chamber Sukuna had built specifically for this moment: soft bedding on a low frame, towels and fresh water in basins, and a carved chair for resting between waves of pain. Your father, who had been tending to the fire in the kitchen, heard the commotion and rushed in, eyes wide. “It’s time,” your mother barked without looking up. “Go. Call Sukuna. Now.”

He didn’t ask questions. Despite Sukuna’s distaste for modern technology, the estate still had a few emergency landlines installed — with direct access to Uraume’s quarters. Your father hobbled to the phone on the wall in the kitchen and dialed with shaking fingers. It rang once.

“Uraume. It’s— It’s happening! Tell him she’s in labor!”

“I’ll get him now,” Uraume responded sharply.

Within moments, Sukuna’s entire demeanor shifted when Uraume stormed into the throne room. “My lord—she’s in labor. The Queen is delivering now.” Sukuna didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. The air crackled around him, cursed energy spiking instinctively as he stormed out of the room. He grabbed the royal physician by the collar, practically dragging him to the carriage waiting outside. “Faster!” he roared at the driver.

By the time Sukuna arrived at the cottage, he barely waited for the horses to stop. The moment the door was open, he was running — all four arms moving in rhythm, pink hair whipped back by the wind. Inside the birthing room, the scene was already chaotic. You were on your side, propped up against a pile of pillows, drenched in sweat. Your mother was crouched at the foot of the bed, calmly calling out for you to breathe, to push.

Your cries tore through the air like lightning. “Almost there, baby girl, you’re doing amazing—push again,” your mother coached. Sukuna burst through the door.

“Y/N!” he barked, instantly at your side. You looked up, your face twisted in pain and relief. “Suku—ah!”

“I’m here.” He took your hand with both of his lower ones, wiping the sweat from your brow with another. His top hand cradled your cheek. “I’m here, I’ve got you.” The physician stayed to the side, ready with cloths and instruments, but your mother remained front and center, calm as ever. “One more, sweetheart. One more big push.” You screamed, body trembling. Sukuna wrapped an arm around your shoulder, holding you upright, whispering in your ear: “You’re doing so well, love. Just one more. You can do it. I’m right here.”

And then—

A cry. Small and wet and powerful.

Your mother held the baby in her hands, her eyes glistening as she quickly cleared the airways, there was a sense of relief in your chest, recalling the days when you were just a child, your mother was an emergency room nurse, you seemed to trust her more than the Royal Physician. Your mother wrapped the tiny body in a linen blanket, and handed the child to the waiting physician. He checked vitals swiftly and professionally, before nodding and announcing, “Healthy. Strong.”

A girl.

Your mother took the baby and placed her carefully in your arms. Your hands trembled as you stared down at her tiny face — pink and flushed, crying softly, little fists curled at her chest. You wept, utterly overwhelmed. “She’s perfect,” you choked out. Sukuna stared, frozen for a moment, before his hand — far larger than her entire body — reached down to brush a finger gently across her cheek. “She’s so small,” he whispered, eyes wide.

Your father appeared at the doorway, tears in his eyes. Your mother took his hand, pulling him to the bed so he could see his granddaughter.

“She has your nose,” you said to Sukuna with a weak laugh. He looked like he might cry — if he were capable of it. Instead, he kissed you gently on the forehead, then again on your temple, then bent down and kissed the baby on her tiny head. “My daughter,” he murmured, voice ragged.

Your mother stepped back, wiping her hands and cheeks. “You did beautifully,” she whispered to you. “Both of you.” You leaned back into Sukuna’s arms, cradling your daughter between you both as the room softened with warmth and light. The nightmare of death, war, and years apart felt like a distant thing now. She was here. She was safe. And so were you.

The house had finally quieted. Your mother and father had left the birthing room to give you privacy. The physician had packed his things, and the linens had been changed. Now, soft candlelight bathed the room in gold, flickering against the carved wood and faintly glowing against the pale blanket that wrapped your newborn daughter. Sukuna sat beside you on the bed, shirtless, his large frame tucked in close as you lay half-upright against the pillows, the baby cradled in your arms.

She was so quiet now, her soft breaths puffing against your chest, her tiny hand curled against the fabric of your nightdress. Her skin was warm and dewy. Her hair — fine, soft, and unmistakably pink — lay in wisps along her scalp. Already you could see the little waves beginning to form. And then, when Sukuna gently shifted the blanket to check her shoulders, he saw it. The small cursed marking on the back of her neck. A crescent-shaped swirl, faint but distinct. Like something ancient and sacred. His breath hitched. You noticed the way his lips parted — not in fear, but in awe.

“She has your hair,” you whispered softly. “And your gentleness,” he replied just as softly. “She’s calm. Even now. That comes from you.” You smiled, sleep-drunk, sore, but blissfully full. “She has two eyes, two arms…”

“And a monster’s power hiding in her blood,” he added, staring at the mark. “She’s perfect.” He leaned in and gently pressed his lips to the crown of her head. Then again. Then your forehead. You looked down at your daughter, tears welling in your eyes again — not from pain, not from exhaustion — but because she was real. Alive. And she was yours. “Can you believe this is real?” you whispered. Sukuna’s voice was gravel-soft. “I almost don’t want to. But I feel her. I feel you. That’s how I know it is.”

You handed the baby gently to him, adjusting the blanket. He took her with practiced care — something that surprised you.

He stared at her. Eyes that had once only known rage, now softened with reverence. He shifted so she rested easily in his lower arms, her cheek nestled against the thick cord of his muscle, her little mouth forming a pout. “I never thought I’d get something like this,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You deserve it.” He looked at you. “You gave her to me.”

“No, we gave her to each other.” He leaned over again, placing her gently back in your arms, and then kissed your lips — long and slow. That night, as she slept curled between your bodies, Sukuna held both of you like a fortress. And nothing — nothing — in the world had ever made him feel so vulnerable, so proud, or so whole.

The soft sounds of late morning filled the house — birdsong in the distance, a kettle gently whistling, and the quiet rustle of curtains fluttering with the breeze. You were sitting on a plush cushion near the window, sunlight spilling over your shoulder, your newborn tucked carefully against your chest. She was sleeping, pink lips parted slightly, her little fists tucked beneath her chin. Sukuna sat behind you on the floor, long legs sprawled out, his upper arms wrapped around your waist as his chin rested lightly on your shoulder.

“She’s quiet today,” you murmured, brushing a finger down your daughter’s cheek. “She knows she’s safe,” Sukuna said, his voice a low rumble. “She always will be.” There was a silence, heavy but calm. His hands rubbed slowly over your sides — always touching you, even now — as if still reassuring himself that this was real. “I’ve been thinking,” you said softly, glancing over your shoulder. “Mm?”

“About her name.”

You felt his breath hitch, just slightly. His crimson eyes lifted from your daughter to your face. “I want to name her Aiyumi,” you said, your smile faint but full. “It means love, dream, and beauty. It’s everything she is. Everything we are.”

Sukuna was quiet for a long moment. He looked down at the baby again, his jaw softening. You heard the whisper of emotion in his breath. “Aiyumi,” he repeated. “Yes… It suits her.” He kissed the top of your head. “Aiyumi,” he said again, like a vow. “Our daughter.”

There was a knock at the back door — gentle, familiar. Your father stepped in first, cane in hand, your mother beside him. They were smiling, laughing about something — a private joke — until they saw you both seated there, the baby still nestled against you. Your mother approached first, smoothing her blouse nervously. “She’s asleep?” You nodded. “Very.”

“Perfect timing then,” your father said, stepping closer, peering over his glasses with pride. You exchanged a look with Sukuna, then smiled up at your parents. “We wanted to tell you both… we’ve chosen her name.” Your mother tilted her head, curious. “Oh?” You looked down at your daughter again, gently adjusting her blanket.

“Aiyumi,” you said. “Her name is Aiyumi.” Your mother’s hand flew to her chest. “Oh—sweetheart, that’s… that’s beautiful.” Your father blinked rapidly and looked to Sukuna, who simply nodded once with pride. “It means love. And dreams. And beauty,” you explained. “I think she already knows,” your father said with a faint laugh, kneeling beside you with effort, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead. “She looks like she’s been here before. And now she’s come back to the right place.” Your mother, standing behind him, placed her hand on your shoulder. Her fingers squeezed gently. “You gave her the name of a future,” she whispered. “She’s going to be something powerful. Just like her mother.” You teared up, leaning back into Sukuna’s arms. The moment was quiet. Gentle. And for a man who once bathed in blood and ruled with rage, Sukuna felt something he could only ever describe as peace.

He looked down at the sleeping bundle in your arms, and repeated under his breath — soft, just for the three of you: “Aiyumi. My daughter.”

The sun hung lazily over the countryside, casting golden warmth across the garden. The air was thick with the scent of lavender and fresh soil, and the chirping of birds played softly in the background like a lullaby. You knelt down beside a row of blooming herbs, hands dirty from working the earth, your sundress slightly wrinkled at the knees. Beside you, nestled comfortably in her little woven baby chair, Aiyumi cooed gently, the light cotton canopy above her head shielding her from the direct sun. Her tiny fingers reached for the floating specks of dust that danced in the light.

It was peaceful—almost.

Until Sukuna's shadow loomed behind you.

"You're supposed to be resting," he grumbled, crossing all four arms over his chest. His hulking frame towered at the edge of the garden, shirtless, his crimson eyes narrowing at the sight of you kneeling with a spade in your hand. You didn’t even look up. “I am resting,” you said pointedly, gently patting the soil. “This is rest.”

“Digging in the ground like a peasant doesn’t qualify as rest,” he huffed, stalking closer. “You just had a child three moons ago. You should be reclining on silk pillows. Not… pulling weeds.” You sighed dramatically, finally sitting back on your heels and wiping your forehead with your arm.

“Sukuna, I’m not made of glass. I’m not going to crumble because I plucked a few weeds or planted some lavender.”

“I didn’t say crumble, I said—" he gestured wildly, all four arms flailing—"you should be taking care of yourself. You're still healing.”

“I am taking care of myself.” You pointed a dirt-covered finger at him. “Being outside, in the garden, is how I take care of myself.”

“I don’t like it.” He pouted like a grumpy cat, his canines poking slightly as his lip curled. “You ignore my instructions and then pretend it’s all fine. I’m your husband, your king, and you should—”

“Oh, now you’re my king? You only bring that title up when you want me to do something.”

“Don’t twist my words, woman.”

“Well maybe if you weren’t trying to bubble-wrap me like a priceless artifact—!” And then it happened. From the little baby chair nearby, a sudden high-pitched squeal echoed through the garden. “Gihhh! Ah-hah-hah!” You and Sukuna both froze. Your heads turned at the same time.

Aiyumi had her fists balled in front of her chest, her mouth wide open in the goofiest grin, cheeks rosy and plump with joy. And then—again:

“Ah-ha! Bahhh!” You blinked, eyes wide. Sukuna’s jaw slackened. “…Was that a laugh?” you whispered. “It was,” he said, stunned.

You dropped your spade and practically flew to her, kneeling beside the chair. “Aiyumi, did you just—did you just laugh at your crazy parents?”

Sukuna crouched beside you, large hand dwarfing her tiny one as he touched her cheek. “You like watching us argue, don’t you?” he muttered, smirking. She giggled again, her nose scrunching as she kicked her chunky little legs. You and Sukuna locked eyes, your previous irritation long forgotten, replaced by pure awe. “…She has your smile,” he said softly, brushing your knuckle against her cheek.

“and has your laugh,” Sukuna added, rubbing her soft belly. You leaned into him, and he pressed a kiss to your temple. “Okay,” he said reluctantly, “you can garden.” You laughed. “Oh, how gracious of you.”

“But only if Aiyumi supervises.”

“She clearly has good judgment,” you teased. The three of you stayed like that—kneeling in the garden, surrounded by herbs and sunshine and laughter. And for the first time in a while, everything felt perfectly still in the best way.

The scent of roasted garlic and fresh thyme lingered in the kitchen, wrapping around the warmth of the fire like a familiar blanket. The baby was finally asleep in her bassinet, cheeks round and rosy, tiny fists curled against her chest as she breathed softly. You padded barefoot to the table where Sukuna sat, already shirtless, leaning back in the wooden chair like he owned the room — which, of course, he did. Two of his arms were folded across his chest while the other two draped lazily on either side of the chair. His pink hair was damp from his bath, curling a little at the ends, his tattoos darker in the low glow of candlelight. He watched you sit, one brow lifting slowly.

“I saw the way your father looked at that pie,” he muttered. You blinked. “What?”

“He’s definitely coming back tomorrow for leftovers. I’ll bet my throne on it.” You rolled your eyes, chuckling as you scooped some food onto your plate. “At least he brings the wine.” You both dug into your meal, your mother's roasted chicken and herbs still steaming. The quiet of the cottage settled over you — peaceful and intimate, just the two of you. Then, Sukuna cleared his throat. He didn’t look at you.

“So.” You glanced up. “I’ve been good.” You blinked. “…Good?”

“Patient,” he elaborated, staring at you now. “Understanding. Saint-like, even.” You set your fork down. “What are you—?”

“It’s been thirteen months.” Your brows furrowed. “Thirteen. Months.” He leaned forward now, resting all four elbows on the table. “Since we made love. Since I had my wife. Since I’ve been inside of you.” Your mouth parted in both shock and laughter. “Oh my god.”

“No, not god. Me. Your husband. A king, and emperor.” He grinned wickedly. “A man with four hands and two cocks and no access to his wife’s body for over a year.” You choked on your wine and had to cover your mouth, giggling. “Don’t laugh at my suffering!” he cried dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Do you know what this is doing to me? I see you every day—soft, glowing, thighs thicker, tits fuller, hips made for me—and I haven’t even tasted you once since Aiyumi decided to pay us a visit!”

“You’re being dramatic,” you teased, wiping your eyes from laughter. “I am dramatic! And desperate! I’ve resorted to humping the mattress like a dog!” he growled, dragging a hand down his face. “Even the servants pity me.” You snorted, cheeks flushed. “Sukuna…”

“I’m withering away, woman. My balls are growing grey hairs.” You had to put your fork down, wheezing. “Please.”

He leaned across the table, tone low and dry. “Just tell me when. Give me a date. A vague promise. I’ll etch it into stone and worship it daily.”

You stood, walking over to him. He grabbed your waist instantly, pulling you into his lap with a dramatic groan. “You’re cruel,” he murmured against your collarbone. “You walk around all day, smelling like lavender, swaying those hips, leaning over the baby crib with your ass right there... and I’m supposed to just behave?” You cupped his cheeks and kissed his forehead. “You’re doing amazing, my love.” He growled. “That’s not the reward I want.” You laughed and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Soon.”

His eyes flickered open, glowing red. “You swear?”

“I swear.”

He wrapped his arms around you like a bear, pulling you against his chest and burying his face in your neck. “Tomorrow I’m building a countdown board. I expect a weekly update.” You smiled and combed your fingers through his hair. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m yours.” And the two of you stayed like that, tangled in candlelight and laughter, while your baby slept just a few feet away — the perfect storm of chaos, love, and something very real.

The cottage was quiet. Aiyumi had fallen asleep after her nighttime feeding, her tiny hands curled against her chest, her mouth puffing soft little breaths. You had spent the last hour watching her in the moonlight, the way her pink hair shone faintly like her father’s, her peacefulness almost magical. You stepped away from the crib, heart full and body warm. You slid the door to your bedroom shut softly. Behind you, Sukuna was lying on his back, all four arms behind his head, shirtless in the moonlight, his chest rising and falling slowly as he rested with his eyes closed. You stared for a moment. The way his body was stretched across the mattress — large, powerful, built like something carved by the gods — yet so still. So quiet. Like he had given up hope. You smirked.

Carefully, slowly, you climbed onto the bed and straddled his lap, skin bare, heart thudding. His brows furrowed. Then his eyes snapped open.

And his breath caught.

You were completely naked — glowing in the silver moonlight spilling through the curtains, your curves full and soft, thighs draped across his waist, your bare core pressing into the hard line of him through the sheet. He didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe. His hands were still behind his head, as if afraid that if he moved, you’d vanish. You reached down and dragged the sheet off him, revealing the raw ache of him — already hard, already twitching with need for you. His chest rose, the muscles in his arms tight with restraint.

“Are you real?” he whispered. You leaned forward, trailing your fingers over the lines of his tattoos, over his pecs, down his abdomen. “Do I feel real?” He hissed. “You feel like heaven.” Your hips rolled once, slow and teasing, grinding down on him with aching pressure. His bottom arms shot out and gripped your waist, and the top two still held tight behind his head, like he was clinging to control. “I missed you,” you whispered, leaning forward to kiss his throat. “Missed this. Missed you.”

“I’ve been starving for you,” he growled. “Thirteen months, and you wait until I’m half-asleep, ready to die in peace.”

You giggled softly and kissed his jaw. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“You’re cruel.”

“I’m generous.”

“Prove it,” he hissed. You shifted, guiding him to your entrance. He groaned when he felt how wet you were already, his head tilting back into the pillow, chest heaving. “Fuck. You’re soaked.” You braced your hands on his chest, easing down slowly, inch by thick inch, taking all of him — the stretch delicious, overwhelming, perfect. “Fuck,” you breathed. “I forgot how deep you reach.” He snapped. His arms were no longer behind his head. All four of them gripped your hips, ass, back — any part of you he could reach — as he sat up to meet your lips in a hungry, desperate kiss. His tongue slid into your mouth, slow and deep, while he bucked his hips up to meet your grind.

You gasped against his mouth. “Easy—!”

“I’ll be gentle,” he promised against your lips. “But I need you.” Your bodies rocked together, the heat building with every pass of your hips, every groan that escaped his throat. His lips latched onto your breast, sucking, teasing, as one hand slid between your thighs to rub slow circles over your clit while you rode him. “S-Sukuna—!” you cried, thighs trembling. “Let go for me,” he growled, thrusting deeper, rubbing harder, mouth still latched to your nipple. “I want to feel you lose it on me, baby.” You shattered. The orgasm ripped through you like lightning — full-bodied, consuming, your walls tightening around him in perfect rhythm. He moaned, head dropping back, jaw clenched.

“I’m not done,” you whispered breathlessly, nails digging into his shoulder. “Don’t stop.” He flipped you under him with ease, never slipping out. His pace slowed — deep, smooth thrusts, all while staring into your eyes. His forehead dropped to yours, breath hot against your lips. “I love you,” he murmured, still moving inside you. “You gave me a family. You gave me peace.” You cupped his cheek, wrapping your legs around his hips. “And you gave me you.” He came with a groan into your mouth, hips jerking, fingers squeezing your thighs. He stayed buried deep, panting, his weight resting on you like a heavy, warm blanket. You kissed his jaw, his cheek, his lips. And finally — after thirteen long, aching months — your world was whole again.

The morning light poured into the cozy kitchen, warming the wooden floor and dappling the countertops with golden glow. Aiyumi had just finished her morning feed and now cooed softly from her crib near the open window, tiny fingers swatting lazily at a hanging toy. The scent of buttered toast and fresh air mingled gently in the space, peaceful and undisturbed.

You were barefoot, dressed in one of your soft, cotton maxi dresses—lavender with tiny embroidered flowers, loose and light. The dress brushed your calves as you moved, hips swaying naturally while you spread butter onto warm slices of bread at the kitchen island, completely unaware of the pair of crimson eyes locked on your backside. Behind you, Sukuna lounged shirtless at the breakfast table, long legs sprawled, arms crossed, and expression unreadable—until his eyes darkened, and his jaw flexed. He’d been trying to stay respectful, patient, calm… but you in that dress, the soft outline of your thighs, the natural arch of your back as you leaned forward ever so slightly—he was at his limit.

He stood without a word. You glanced up at the sound of his heavy steps, just in time to feel his large hand sweep your hair aside and his body press against your back. “Suku—what are you doing?” you whispered, glancing toward the crib, heart fluttering. “She’s sleeping,” he murmured low against your ear, voice gravelly, heat laced in every syllable. “And you look too damn edible for me to keep waiting another day.”

His hand slid down your waist, cupping your ass firmly. Before you could scold him, he bent you gently over the counter, lifting the hem of your sundress up over your hips. You gasped, gripping the cool stone surface beneath your palms.

“Sukuna, we just—” “I don’t care,” he cut in, voice husky. “I can’t get enough of you.” He moved your panties to the side, baring your slick heat to the morning air. One of his hands held your hip steady, the other palmed your lower belly, possessive and reverent all at once. And then—he slid inside you in one deep, slow thrust that made your knees wobble and your mouth fall open in a silent moan. “You’re always so ready for me,” he growled into your shoulder, rolling his hips slowly, deliberately, grinding into that soft spot that made your vision blur. “It’s not fair.” You whimpered, trying not to cry out as your body clenched around him. He filled you too perfectly, every stretch delicious and achingly slow, just how he knew you liked it. “Please—please don’t stop,” you breathed, face flushed, your voice trembling as he fucked you deeper with every roll of his hips.

He was relentless but controlled, murmuring filth into your ear as his lower hand slid between your legs to circle your clit. “My pretty little wife,” he purred, tongue dragging along your neck. “I missed this body. Missed how you cry for me.” Your climax slammed into you hard—unexpected, powerful. Your mouth opened in a silent scream as your body trembled against the countertop, Sukuna fucking you through every wave of pleasure, his own control unraveling. He grunted low in his chest, hips jerking as he emptied himself inside you, holding you against him with all four arms as if you might disappear.

Just beyond the garden, your mother stood watering her herbs near her own little cottage. She glanced up toward the window of the main house—just a glance—only to freeze mid-motion. She blinked. Blinked again. Turned on her heel. Your father, walking toward her with two steaming cups of tea, raised a brow. “Everything alright?” She handed him a cup, clearing her throat. “We’re not going over there today.”

“What? Why not?”

“They’re busy.”

“They’re always busy. You said you wanted to—” She sighed dramatically, cutting him off. “Because your son-in-law has her bent over the kitchen counter like a damn pastry and I do not need to witness the conception of our second grandchild.” Your father stared blankly. And then quietly turned around, sipping his tea. “Well. Good for them, I suppose.”

A few days had passed since that steamy kitchen morning, and the weather had cooled with the scent of coming rain. Sukuna had been reluctantly summoned to the estate—an offense committed by another Lord required his imperial presence. You had watched him leave that morning, armored in dark robes with his hair half-pulled back, kissing your forehead with a soft growl of annoyance. “I’ll be back before nightfall,” he muttered against your temple. “Unless the bastard says something stupid—then maybe tomorrow.” Now, late afternoon had crept in gently, and you sat cross-legged on the plush rug near Aiyumi’s high chair, feeding her soft bits of mashed sweet potato. She giggled gleefully every time you made the spoon “fly,” her cheeks flushed and her soft pink hair curling slightly at the ends. Her laugh rang like bells, especially when her grandfather poked her tummy.

“Who’s the cutest little thing in the whole damn world?” your father cooed, crouching beside her and scrunching his nose. Aiyumi squealed in response, reaching for him with both her little arms, making him chuckle. “You must’ve taken after your mother, kid. No way you got this charm from that pink-haired demon.”

“Oh please,” your mother scoffed as she entered the house, setting down a basket of fruits and herbs from her garden. “She’s got that sly grin—that’s all her father.” You rolled your eyes playfully, wiping Aiyumi’s mouth. “She’s got both our stubbornness, that’s for sure.” Your mother sat down beside you, pulling her shawl over her shoulders with an exaggerated sigh. “Speaking of your demon husband,” she smirked, “you two ever take a break?”

You raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play coy with me,” she grinned, eyes sparkling. “You’ve got that ‘I’ve been worshiped like a goddess’ glow every time I see you. Not to mention, your father and I have ears—and windows.” Your father choked on his tea. “I told you we shouldn’t have come that morning!” You blushed, groaning. “Okay, okay! Let’s not talk about that—please.”

“Just saying,” your mother chuckled, leaning back on her hands, “if you keep letting that man have his way with you every other hour, we’ll be hosting another baby blessing before the year’s over.” At that, your father waved a dismissive hand and muttered, “Horny dog.”

You laughed, finally sitting back and fanning yourself. “Actually, I’m not ready for that yet.”

“Oh?” your mother said with a knowing smile. “I’ve been drinking a tea Uraume made for me,” you admitted. “It works as a contraceptive. Just... for now. I want to focus on Aiyumi—and myself—before we even think about a second baby.” Your mother nodded, gently touching your hand. “Good. You’ve got time. Besides, that little one has enough energy for three babies.”

Aiyumi smacked her spoon against her high chair tray, a bubble of laughter erupting from her as she babbled nonsense to her grandfather, who was now dramatically pretending to faint at her cuteness. “I swear she’s going to rule this house one day,” your father said, dramatically slumped in his chair. “She already does,” you said with a grin, brushing your fingers through Aiyumi’s fluffy curls. “She’s got her papa wrapped around all four of his hands.” They laughed, and for a moment, the room was quiet except for the sounds of soft giggles and the warm crackle of the fire behind you.

Even with Sukuna gone for the day, your home was full—of love, of family, and of peace.

#anime fanfic #fanfiction #ryomen sukuna #sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna ryomen smut #sukuna smut #jjk sukuna #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #sukuna ryomen #true form sukuna #ryomen sukuna x reader #jujutsu kaisen ryomen #ryomen x reader #jjk ryomen #ryomen sukuna fluff #ryomen sukuna smut

48 notes · View notes

suku-enthusiasts · 4 days ago

Text

ＷＡＹＯＵＴＴＨＥＲＥ 𖠰 ⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

series masterlist

✦ ── pairing: lumberjack!sukuna x citygirl!reader

✦ ── synopsis: taking a hike, alone, in a massive forest to escape your mundane life may not have been the greatest idea you'd conjured up—a realization you'd come to soon after you managed to lose your map miles inland. but when a lumberjack who knows the land like the back of his hand offers you a place to stay, you think maybe your life isn't so tragic after all. besides, for the sake of your safety, who knows what lingers in the shadows after nightfall?

✦ ── contents: lost in the forest au, forced proximity, bantering, angst, trauma/torture aspects, minor injuries, eventual romance, eventual smut, no use of y/n, more tags to be added.

✦ ── a/n: this is going to be my 1k followers special but i've already got a solid outline and plenty written. i believe this will end up being a multi-chapter fic. can't wait to release this, so check below the threshold for a teaser ;D

✦ ── word count: 12k/?

archive ─ playlist

volume one // womb

volume two // amateur blood

volume three // you don't mess around with slim

volume four // ???

volume five // ???

comment to be added to the taglist (status: open)

art by outdmilk on twt

teaser 𖠰 ✩₊˚.⋆☾𓃦☽⋆⁺₊✧🪵𓇢𓆸

After getting fully dressed, you shuffled your socks on before you let out a loud hiss–a sudden piercing pressure on your ankle.

Gently setting your sock down, you sat atop a nearby rock and crossed your legs to take a closer look.

It seemed that the thorn that poked you earlier had done more than just that–the area swelling and red. The spot, previously a microscope hole, had grown and was practically glowing and exuding a heat.

You pressed a finger against it, immediately regretting it when it sent pain spiking through your veins, the skin bulbous.

“You’re not making it out of the forest any time soon in that condition.”

You yelped with a jump, full-body flinching and swinging your head behind you to see Sukuna towering over you, eyes narrowed to slits as he eyed your injury. “Jesus. Warn a woman next time?”

He ignored you, something you’ve noticed he has a habit of doing, as he folded in half, skimming a finger over your puncture wound. A tight whimper left your lips, his calloused finger ghosting over it before he straightened out. “Can you walk on it?”

You attempted to pull the sock back over before you winced, heart fluttering in nerves. “I-I can try,” you stammered out, trying to maneuver it carefully before he clicked his tongue.

“Fuck, alright,” he grunted, as if mulling something over before he stepped in front of you. He crouched down on one knee, jeans digging into the mud yet he didn’t seem to care. “Hop on.”

Your maw fell slack at the sight, suddenly feeling incredibly hot at the sight. This crude and ruffish man was offering to carry you all of the sudden.

“Uh, it’s alright. I-I can walk–”

“Quit your rambling and get on.”

You shut up at his interruption, muttering a ‘rude much?’ he didn’t acknowledge under your breath before standing to a wobble, doing your best not to bump your ankle into anything as the pain began to flare to what felt like your bones.

Oddly enough, he was practically your height on his knees, his massive form slightly intimidating you.

You brought your hands over his shoulders and clasped them in front of him, hoping he couldn’t smell the musk radiating from your sweat-soaked clothing.

As you tried to wrap your legs around his midsection, he suddenly rose, wrapping his massive hands along the underside of your thighs and straightening to his full height.

You did everything to ignore the flip of your stomach as he did so, the touch burning your skin.

Something sizzled in your mind, before you realized how leggy this man actually was. “Could make a joke about the weather up here, but it’s really quite nice,” you snickered, head ducking between his hat, cheek right beside his, as your eyes raked over his bird's eye view.

“Shut it or I’m dropping you.”

850 notes · View notes

suku-enthusiasts · 4 days ago

Text

heian era pt III || s. ryomen

❛ ❜ sukuna ryomen x f!reader || modern au

❝Growing up with the pink haired boy, it was no surprise when he put a ring on your finger when you both turned eighteen. The young man Sukuna Ryomen Itadori knew your dark life at home with your family, desperately trying to take you away. Until he is sentenced to 10 years of prison for keeping true to his vows… “I promise you with all of my being, I will protect you in anyway I have to, til the day I die.” And protects you he does…❞

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol/weed. hurt/trauma. family trauma. consent/non consent. smut . anxiety. death.

Heian Era… pt II… 🔥

main masterlist | series masterlist <- other side stories

The garden was quieter than usual, late afternoon sun trickling through the willow branches like melted gold. You sat with your legs tucked beneath you, fingertips brushing the tips of wild grass. The scent of earth, the whisper of wind, the faint hum of insects made it feel like the world had slowed just for you. “You are always in this garden,” came a huff behind you, rich and deep and annoyed in that very specific Sukuna way. You smiled to yourself before turning to look at him. “Don’t you recall when we would watch from the hill over there?” you asked, nodding gently toward the slope on the far side of the field. He followed your gaze, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “I recall vaguely,” he muttered, walking closer. “Do tell me the story again.” You patted the ground beside you, and the King of Curses — destroyer of nations, terror of generations — lowered himself beside you, resting his head in your lap without a word.

“We were fourteen,” you murmured, fingers sinking into his soft pink hair. “You said that one day we’d live here. That no matter what came, this place would be ours.”

“Fourteen,” he repeated. “We were really that young, my dear?” You nodded, smiling as you smoothed the hair from his brow. “Fifteen years ago,” you sighed. “Gods, that makes me feel old.”

“You are,” he deadpanned. You smacked his shoulder with a playful scoff, then pushed him gently back onto the grass, swinging your leg over to straddle him. He let his arms rest behind his head, watching you with half-lidded eyes, his usual smirk returning. “What are you doing?” he asked, voice low but amused. “Just want to be close to you, Suku…” You began moving your hips slowly against his, teasing friction through layers of fabric. His jaw tensed, but he didn’t stop you. “Woman… stop that.” You knew what he meant. But you also knew he didn’t mean it.

You leaned down until your mouth hovered above his. “Do you really wish me to pleasure myself, my Lord?” you whispered. “That would be a sight,” he said with a growl, eyes darkening. “Do please.” With a flick of your wrist, your kimono slipped from your shoulders, pooling around your waist. The fabric framed your bare skin, your curves bathed in light, and Sukuna’s breath caught for half a second — a flicker of reverence, just beneath the hunger.

“Go on,” he rasped, gesturing with his lower right hand. “Pleasure yourself, woman.” You pulled his robes down just enough to expose his cock, already hard from your teasing grind. “Why must I use my fingers,” you whispered, “when I have something far better?” He arched a brow. “You really are insolent.” You simply smiled and sank down onto him. You took your time, gasping softly as he filled you, your hands bracing on his chest. His bottom hands gripped your hips tight, keeping you in place, while his top pair remained behind his head, watching you with that maddening mix of arrogance and adoration. “You do love testing my control,” he muttered, voice rasping like gravel. You began to move — slow, languid rolls of your hips that pulled moans from your own lips before they pulled any from his. You cupped your breasts, pinching lightly, and let your fingers trail lower, teasing your aching clit as you kept riding him.

“You commanded I pleasure myself,” you reminded breathlessly, “I’m only obeying.” Sukuna growled, a deep rumble from his chest. “You’re doing it all wrong.” He grabbed your hand, tossing it aside as he replaced it with his thumb, rubbing circles against your clit with expert precision. You cried out, falling forward against his chest. “That’s how it’s done,” he growled into your neck. “You want to make a mess on my cock? Do it properly.” He sat up then, holding you in his lap, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as his pace became brutal and deep, every thrust angled to hit the spot that made you sob into his skin. His lips brushed your ear, his voice a gravelly whisper. “You feel that? That’s where you belong. Wrapped around me.” You could barely respond, breath stolen by each perfect stroke. The willow branches swayed above you like guardians of your secret. You’d made love here too many times to count. Sometimes with urgency. Sometimes with slow reverence. But this time — this time was different.

You were older now. The world had broken you and rebuilt you again. You’d survived war, betrayal, even death. But here you were — his wife, his queen — falling apart in his arms in the same place you’d once been a girl dreaming of a future. When you came, it was with a cry of his name, your body trembling violently as your walls clamped around him. He groaned, head thrown back, and spilled into you, both of his cocks twitching with the intensity of it. “Gods…” he hissed, panting. “You feel like sin. You always have.” You sagged against him, boneless and flushed. But he wasn’t done. He lifted you gently, whispering against your temple. “Place your hands on the tree, woman.” You obeyed, letting the bark press against your palms as he knelt behind you, watching his seed spill from your body before slipping back inside. This time, his thrusts were slower, deeper — his hands gripping your hips and waist to keep you upright. He whispered your name like a prayer, a curse, a promise. And you answered with broken moans, your head thrown back, letting him take what he needed.

By the time he carried you back inside — cradled against his chest like the most precious thing in the world — your legs were trembling, your body wrecked, your heart full. “If anyone looks at my wife,” he snarled as you passed his servants, “I’ll have your eyes fed to the dogs.” You giggled weakly against his chest. In your chambers, he laid you on the bed, stripped the rest of your clothes, and kissed every inch of you before sinking back inside for one last round — soft, aching, emotional. “I love you,” you whispered, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I love you more than I know how to say,” he murmured, voice cracking. “I will… I’ll get Uraume to prepare something, a contraceptive… p-please, my Queen,” Sukuna nearly whimpered against your shoulder, breath trembling, lips brushing your damp skin. You could hear the strain in his voice — the mix of overwhelming desire and the rare vulnerability he only showed you. He pressed a kiss to your nape, one of his arms still holding your waist as the other smoothed gently over your belly, protective even in his lust. “I know you’re still aching,” he murmured, his lips warm against your ear, “Let me satisfy you… one more time.” You nodded, unable to speak, body already trembling and eager beneath his touch. He lifted you carefully, watching your slick thighs quiver as he guided you forward. “Face down on the bed,” he said lowly, voice like velvet and smoke. “Arch your back, woman.” The sheets were cool beneath your palms as you leaned forward, heart racing. You felt the cold air kiss your skin, heard the quiet rustle of leaves above, and then — the slow press of him entering you again, deeper than before. You gasped, forehead resting on your forearm, legs turning to jelly. “My Lord…” you whimpered, barely able to stand. “It’s too much…”

His lower arms gripped your waist firmly, holding you in place, keeping you from collapsing under the weight of the pleasure. He pulled his top cock free, focusing only on the one buried inside you, driving into you with long, steady thrusts that stole your breath and made your body pulse. “You drive me mad,” he growled, head tilting back, a sheen of sweat coating his chest. “You take me so well… every single time…”

He reached around you, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing in slow circles that matched the rhythm of his hips. It was too much, too good, too perfect — and your body gave in, again and again, as his name spilled from your lips like a broken prayer. His groans deepened, the grip on your hips tightening as his pace faltered, and he came with a ragged cry, holding you flush against him as warmth spilled deep inside once more.

You stayed like that for a moment, his chest pressed to your back, both of you panting. The world was quiet but alive — your hearts beating in sync. Eventually, he eased out of you, and your knees buckled slightly — but he caught you instantly, cradling you in his arms. He held you close, pressing kisses along your shoulder, your temple, your cheeks. “Let’s get you cleaned up,” he whispered, brushing your hair back. “And after… I’ll stay with you all night. Every moment. Every breath.” You nodded, curling into him. “You always do.”

Afterward, you lay together in silence, limbs tangled, hearts open. “Sukuna,” you whispered, staring at the ceiling. “Please don’t finish inside me again.”

“I know,” he whispered, burying his face into your neck. “I’m sorry…”

“Would it be so bad… to have a child?” he asked after a long pause. You turned to him, touching his face. “Maybe in the next life. When we’re just… human. When the world isn’t so cruel.”

“You think we’ll find each other again?” he asked softly. “I do,” you whispered. “I think I’ve always been yours.” He kissed your palm. “Then I’ll keep finding you. No matter how many lives it takes.” You smiled, pulling the blanket over both of you. “But for now… I need a bath. And whatever Uraume can make to stop your reckless seed from taking root.” Sukuna chuckled, already standing to lift you into his arms again. “As you command, my Queen.” And he carried you away — through the halls of your kingdom, through the weight of your shared history — into the bath, into another night of whispered love and tender worship.

Even monsters, after all, could love like gods.

#anime fanfic #fanfiction #ryomen sukuna #sukuna #sukuna x reader #sukuna ryomen smut #sukuna smut #jjk sukuna #sukuna ryomen #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #jujutsu sukuna #jujustu kaisen #ryomen sukuna x reader #ryomen x reader #jjk ryomen #jujutsu kaisen ryomen

38 notes · View notes

suku-enthusiasts · 4 days ago

Text

chapter seven || virgins - s. ryomen

❛ ❜ sukuna ryomen x f!reader || modern au

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol/weed. hurt/trauma. family trauma. consent/non consent. smut . anxiety. death.

main masterlist | series masterlist | previous chapter

It had been three weeks since you married Sukuna Itadori, and though you hadn’t gone on a honeymoon, it hardly mattered. You were young—just eighteen—still fumbling your way through early adulthood. You were studying literature at the university with dreams of becoming an editor, and Sukuna had been working construction since he was sixteen, pulling long hours alongside Toji. The money was good enough to keep you both comfortable, though the real luxury was the home he’d built for you with his own hands. Every inch of it carried his effort, his calloused palms, his quiet love. He never touched the inheritance his mother left him. Instead, it sat in savings with the sizable sum his father, Wasuke, handed over after hearing he was getting married. But Sukuna didn’t touch that money either. “It’s for you,” he’d said gruffly, kissing your forehead. “For your future. Just in case I fuck everything up.” So he paid the bills with what he earned—penny-pinching where he could, budgeting where needed, but never letting you go without, and yet, even with that love stitched into the walls, the sheets, the fridge stocked with your favorite things, one part of your marriage remained untouched: you hadn’t made love.

Not once.

You’d caught him staring, felt his hands grip your hips, his groans muffled into your neck when he held you close. His cock had stiffened against your thigh too many times to count, but still—he never made a move. That night, he came home late, smelling faintly of wood, earth, and sweat. “M’ home,” he grunted, leaving his boots by the door. “Hi, Kuna,” you smiled, already taking his jacket and shirt. “Dinner’s ready after you shower.”

“I could do it,” he yawned. “I know,” you replied, disappearing into the laundry room with a knowing grin. Later, the two of you sat curled on the couch, an old black-and-white movie flickering on the screen, neither of you really watching. Your body burned with want. It was almost painful—the ache between your thighs, the way you clenched just thinking about his hands, his mouth, the way he might sound if he was finally inside you. “Hey,” Sukuna’s voice snapped you from your spiraling thoughts, “you ready for bed?” You blinked, blushing furiously. “Y-yeah. Sure.” He yawned, climbing into bed. You followed him, heart thudding as you perched beside him. “Hey, Ryo?”

“Yeah?”

“When are we gonna have sex?” you asked plainly. He choked on his own spit, coughing violently. “Jesus, give a guy some warning!”

“Sukuuuu,” you groaned, climbing into his lap, pressing your clothed heat against the length growing hard beneath his sweats. “What the hell are you doing, you heathen?” he grunted, but his hands gripped your waist, betraying his own restraint. “Make love to me, Sukuna,” you whispered into his ear, your voice a sultry plea as you rolled your hips against him. “Fuck…” he hissed, his head falling back as you pressed harder. You started kissing along his jaw, down his throat, dragging your tongue and biting softly. But then, “Baby… not tonight.” You stopped cold as he gently lifted you off him. You were flushed, breathless, confused. “Why are you pushing me away?” you snapped, hurt rising in your throat. “Baby—”

“No! Don’t ‘baby’ me!” Your voice cracked. “I just… I want to have sex with my husband. Why don’t you want me?” Sukuna sighed and reached for you, placing his forehead against your stomach. “I do want you,” he murmured. “I just… It’s late, I’m tired, I have work early. I promise, just give me a little time.” You ran your fingers through his hair, your heart sinking. “Fine,” you whispered, curling beside him under the sheets. Two more weeks passed. Nothing. But then, on a snowy Thursday, everything changed.

“Toji and I got approved for two weeks of paid time off,” Sukuna called from the bathroom, steam spilling from behind the door. “Starting tomorrow.” You nearly dropped the plate you were drying. “Wait, really?”

“Mmhmm. I thought you and I could take a trip to the cabin. I already booked it.” You ran into the room with wide eyes, heart racing. “That sounds amazing! When are we leaving?”

“Tonight. Go pack.”

The drive was three hours, your excitement crackling in the air like static. When you arrived, the cabin was warm and cozy, the fridge stocked from a delivery service Sukuna had scheduled, and alcohol courtesy of his father filled the cabinets. The man had planned everything. By the time you reached the master bedroom, you were buzzing with anticipation. But Sukuna simply laid back on the bed and smiled sleepily “Tomorrow, baby. I promise.” Again, he was out like a light. You sighed, curling up next to him, silently cursing the powerful weapon between his thighs that he refused to use on you.

The first touch was soft—so soft you thought you were dreaming. A hand grazing up the back of your thigh, warm and deliberate, fingertips tracing the curve with a lover’s worship. The faint orange glow of dawn kissed the room, filtering through the cabin windows in slanted beams that danced across the blankets. You blinked slowly, breath catching as you stirred from sleep. His hand traveled higher, coaxing you gently into awareness. “Sukuna…” you breathed, still heavy with sleep, lashes fluttering as you rolled onto your back. His voice was low—raspy, still worn with sleep but thickened with something else, something deeper. “Wake up, sweetheart.” You peeked at him through a haze of morning light, the sight of him unraveling whatever defenses you had left. His pink hair was a mess, his eyes half-lidded but focused entirely on you, face shadowed in the soft golden light. His body caged over yours—bare skin against the blankets, warm, solid, safe. He pressed a kiss just below your jaw, then another lower on your neck, his lips parting to suck gently at your pulse point. The vibration of your moan lit a fire in his chest.

“It’s early,” you murmured, draping your arm over your eyes as your body arched instinctively into his. “I know,” he said, voice like gravel and silk. “But I’m starving.” You gave a lazy smile, letting your fingers slide up the strong line of his back. “Then let’s go eat breakfast.” But Sukuna only chuckled, a dark, heated sound as he leaned up, eyes burning into yours. “That’s not what I meant.” And just like that, your heart flipped.

He dipped down, his mouth brushing against the shell of your ear before he gently nipped it. “I meant you,” he growled, voice low and full of promise. “I want to taste you, baby.” You gasped at the bluntness, heat pouring into your cheeks. But you didn’t stop him when he sat up, letting the blanket fall off your bodies. He took his time, always slow with you—his big hands ghosting over your sides, pushing up your sleep shirt inch by inch. You watched as his hungry eyes drank you in. “Fuck,” he breathed, voice barely audible, “look at you.” You shied away, instinctively starting to close your legs, but he clicked his tongue and shook his head. “No hiding from me,” he murmured, fingers wrapping around your thighs to keep them open. “Not when you’re mine.”

Sukuna leaned in, his mouth finding your breasts, trailing his tongue around your already sensitive nipples, tugging and sucking until your back arched. He moved lower, lips burning a trail down your stomach, his breath hot against your skin. “Suku…” you whimpered, your voice tremulous. He paused, meeting your gaze with a softness that nearly broke you. “What is it, sweetheart?”

“I… I love you,” you whispered, voice thick with emotion, a single tear slipping from the corner of your eye. That stopped him. He leaned up slightly, brushing his knuckles over your cheek, then kissed the spot where your tear had fallen. “I love you too,” he murmured, reverent, sacred. “So damn much.” He pressed one more kiss to your belly before settling between your legs. Then you felt it—his fingers gently parting your folds, and his tongue dragging a slow, decadent stripe from your entrance to your clit. Your entire body jolted, a broken moan falling from your lips. “Oh… my god…”

“That’s it,” Sukuna groaned, already breathless, “just like that.” His mouth latched onto your clit, hot and wet, tongue rolling over it in slow, deliberate flicks. His arms hooked under your thighs, dragging you closer, locking you against his mouth as if he could never get enough. You gasped his name over and over, your fingers tangling in his hair, your legs trembling around his head. He moaned into you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your core. “Taste better than syrup, baby… could live off you.” And then—his tongue pushed inside, thrusting slowly, fucking you with the same tenderness he kissed you with. You could barely breathe. Every part of you was on fire. He worshipped your body like it was holy, like it was his only religion. “Sukuna—ah—please…” you cried, your back arching off the bed. That’s when he slipped a finger inside you—thick, slow, purposeful. He searched gently, curling until he found that spot that made your entire body jolt. “There,” he growled, curling again, pressing his mouth back to your clit as he added a second finger, you shattered.

You came so hard your vision went white, your thighs shaking violently as you sobbed out his name, your nails raking down his scalp. But he didn’t stop. He rode you through it, murmuring sweet nothings, eyes flicking up to watch you fall apart. And when the aftershocks had barely faded, he thrust his fingers in deeper, dragging another orgasm out of you so quickly your entire body convulsed. You were wrecked. Tear-stained, breathless, trembling, and still—hungry. “Please,” you gasped, hips bucking into his palm. “Put it in… please, baby…” The nickname—so soft on your tongue, so rare from you—nearly made him lose it right then. Sukuna pulled back slowly, licking his lips clean like a starved man.

The room was brightening up, lit only by the soft amber glow of the early morning sun slipping in through the curtains. You were both breathless, skin flushed, hearts pounding like war drums in your chests. Sukuna’s boxers slipped down his thighs, and the moment they hit the floor, his thick, veiny cock sprang free, slapping against his lower abdomen with a wet sound. He was already leaking—dripping pre from the reddened, swollen head, his hand wrapping around himself instinctively, stroking slow as he looked up at you. “You sure?” he asked, voice low and strained, his thumb brushing over the tip of his cock. His eyes searched yours, as if begging you to stop him before he lost all control. You didn’t answer with words. You nodded—fast, eager—your thighs spreading, your hands trailing down your body as you opened yourself to him.

“Please,” you whispered, your voice thick with need. “I need it, Suku… I need you.” He let out a breathy groan and leaned forward, running his cock through your soaked folds, collecting your slick as his lips parted in awe. “Fuck, baby… you’re so wet.” He lined the thick head up with your entrance, pressing lightly. “It’s gon’ hurt…”

“I know,” you whispered, then suddenly tilted your hips up, forcing his cock to breach your tight walls just slightly. His fingers dug into your waist, hissing out, “Slow down, woman…”

“NO,” you snapped—fierce and trembling, your voice laced with desperation and command. You rose up on your knees, grabbed the base of his cock with one hand, and with the other gripping his shoulder for balance, you shoved yourself down onto him in one full, breathtaking motion.

Sukuna choked on air. His back arched. “Shit—!” he gasped, his head falling back, fists clenched at your hips as your hot, tight walls stretched wide around him. His eyes fluttered, mouth open in disbelief. “F-fuck, baby, you’re… oh my god.” Your nails dug into his skin as you collapsed into him, wrapping your arms tightly around his neck, trembling from the sheer intensity of it all. The stretch was sharp, deep, unforgiving—and still, you refused to let go. Your breathing was shallow, your lips brushing against his ear. “I needed this,” you whimpered. “I needed you… inside me. Please don’t move. Just—just hold me.” He held you, cradled you, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmured soft things you couldn’t fully make out. He shifted just slightly and glanced down, eyes widening when he saw the faint streak of blood at the base of his cock.

“Your hymen…” he breathed. “I… I’m sorry—”

“No,” he said quickly, his voice full of awe, one hand smoothing over your side, the other trembling against your back. “Don’t say sorry. Are you okay?” You nodded against his neck, tears clinging to your lashes but your body so full, so complete. “C-can you move? Just… a little?” He nodded, easing you gently onto your back without ever pulling out. He kissed your temple, your cheeks, your mouth—then slowly began to move. His cock dragged through your core, gliding so deep, so thick inside of you, each gentle thrust coaxing out gasps and whimpers. “You feel like heaven,” he whispered. “Fucking heaven, baby…” Your legs wrapped around his hips as your fingers raked down his back, your nails pressing delicious little crescents into his skin. Sukuna groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, panting softly against your skin as his rhythm deepened. When he sat up again, he did it to look at you. To watch your expression twist in pleasure, to see your body arch toward him as he rubbed slow, firm circles on your clit. “I’m gonna fucking bust,” he moaned, barely able to hold himself back. “You’re squeezing me so tight… you gon’ cum, sweetheart?” Your mouth fell open in a silent cry as the tension in your belly snapped like a live wire. Your body seized, trembled beneath him, walls clenching around him like a velvet vise. Sukuna’s thrusts turned erratic, his head falling forward as he gasped your name. “Cum with me, baby… cum with me—fuck, I love you—” Your orgasms collided like a tidal wave—him spilling into you in hot, thick spurts while you milked every last drop from him, coating him in your own release. His entire body trembled as he collapsed onto you, arms wrapping around you tight, face buried in your neck, and still, even as your bodies calmed, he refused to pull away. His cock throbbed softly inside you, his breath slowing as he whispered again, “I love you… I love you so much.” And you held him—your Sukuna—knowing nothing had ever made you feel so full, so claimed, so entirely his.

It started with sunrise and never stopped. Sukuna had barely gotten through breakfast before you were in his lap again, your mouth on his neck, your hands under his shirt. He groaned like he was dying, pulling you into his arms like he’d never get enough of you. And maybe he wouldn’t—because from that moment on, it was game over. Every wall, every floorboard, every breath between you two was soaked in the sound of your pleasure and his desperate, unfiltered hunger. You fucked like you were making up for lost time—and maybe you were. The shower fogged up quick, his hand braced above your head, your back against the wall as water poured over your slick skin. He swore under his breath as he moved inside you slowly, reverently, his voice cracking every time you moaned his name. Then it was the bed, where he took his time—his mouth on your chest, his fingers circling your clit until your body trembled. He whispered sweet, ridiculous things like, “I think I just saw god and she looks like you,” and “You’re gonna kill me, you know that? Death by pussy. It’s happening.” You snorted through a moan. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Dramatic? Baby, I’m being reborn.” He kissed you deeply, like he meant it. You barely made it out of the room before he dragged you to the living room and bent you over the couch cushions, your knees slipping, your hands clinging to the armrest as he held your hips steady and ruined you slowly. Your legs were shaking, your thighs glistening with a mix of his slick and yours, and still he whispered, “One more, baby, just one more.”

“Liar,” you breathed, face flushed. “You said that three orgasms ago.”

“Okay, okay,” he grunted, rutting into you harder, “but you’re not exactly stopping me.” You didn’t. You couldn’t. The hot tub? He bent you over the ledge and bit your shoulder as steam rose around you both. The kitchen island? You were sprawled across it, one of his big hands on your stomach, the other teasing your clit while he watched himself slide in and out of you, hypnotized. The counter? You climbed up like it was your throne, pulled him close by his shirt collar, and guided him back in with your eyes locked on his. When you grinned, he swore again and nearly came from just the look on your face. He ate you out until you were crying and swatting weakly at his head, begging him to stop—and still, he held you in place, groaning into your pussy like a man starved. Eventually, your body was spent, your thighs quivering, your voice hoarse, and you could barely form full sentences. That didn’t stop Sukuna. He started to jerk himself off just to keep going, his other hand rubbing slow, delicious circles into your swollen clit until you were twitching under him.

Two whole days passed like that—your bodies inseparable, your moans echoing from room to room. Which is why, when Toji and his girlfriend finally arrived, Sukuna looked… well, ruined. He opened the door with his shirt inside-out, stained with something no one wanted to identify. His hair was sticking up in every direction like he’d been electrocuted, and his sweats hung low on his hips, barely tied. Toji took one look at him and barked out a laugh. “Man, you finally got laid?” Sukuna blinked at him, pupils still blown, the light barely returning to his eyes. “Huh?”

Toji brushed past him. “Poor bastard looks like he’s been through war.”

“Sukuna…” you called weakly from upstairs, voice already trembling with need. The poor man flinched—visibly—and turned toward the stairs like he’d just heard the voice of god calling him home. “I—I gotta go,” he mumbled, tripping over his feet as he bolted back up. Toji cackled, tossing his bag on the floor. “Yep. Horny teenagers.”

“Toji, we’re literally all the same age,” his girlfriend reminded, rolling her eyes. “Yeah, well, we’ve been fucking since fifteen.” He winked, smug.

Upstairs, the door slammed. You barely had time to see Sukuna’s flushed face before he was crawling into bed, panting. “I missed you,” he whispered hoarsely, already rutting against your thigh. You didn’t leave that room until the next morning. You were sore in the best way. Your body ached, your skin tingled, and you swore you felt him still dripping from between your thighs days later. Sukuna? He was breathless, worshipful, and completely wrecked—smiling like a fool, eyes soft, hands always touching you like he didn’t quite believe this was real.

You were his dream, and now that he had you, he wasn't letting go—not for anything.

61 notes · View notes

suku-enthusiasts · 5 days ago

Text

Convicted - S. Ryomen

❛ ❜ sukuna ryomen x f!reader || modern au

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol/weed. hurt/trauma. family trauma. consent/non consent. smut . anxiety. death.

masterlist

Chapters

one. pick up two. drink for you? 🔥 three. barbecue at the Itadori’s 🔥🍃🚬 four. I need space… five. first date… again? 🔥 six. wedding bells seven. virgins at the cabin 🔥 eight. no place for a hurt girl. (viewer discretion is advised) nine. birthday girl🔥 ten. mom? (Angst- viewer discretion is advised) eleven. safe word (smut then angst) Twelve. Cabin... Again? 🔥 Thirteen. Unexpected the Expected Fourteen. News 🔥 Fifteen. News pt II 🔥

Head Canons

convicted!husbandSuku!

Side Stories

girly dad Suku Heian Era… pt II… pt III 🔥 phone sex? 🔥 bad fucking day 🔥 cut me some slack healthy love 🔥 ptsd

254 notes · View notes

suku-enthusiasts · 5 days ago

Text

PTSD || s. ryomen - side story

❛ ❜ sukuna ryomen x f!reader || modern au

cw ; mdni • 18+ only. contains explicit sexual themes and content. use of alcohol/weed. hurt/trauma. family trauma. consent/non consent. smut . anxiety. death.

main masterlist | series masterlist

“Hi, my sweet girl,” you smiled softly, kneeling to greet your three-year-old daughter as she came toddling down the hallway in nothing but a grin. You were in the middle of potty training, which meant these naked streaks through the house weren’t exactly rare—but today, something in your chest squeezed tighter than usual. “Mama!” she squealed, stripping fully and sprinting past you, arms flailing like tiny wings. You laughed at first, reaching for the towel draped over the back of the couch, but your smile faltered. Your stomach turned. That familiar lump formed in your throat. And without thinking, your voice came sharp—too sharp.

“Sukuna, turn around!” you snapped, hurriedly wrapping your daughter’s tiny body in the towel. Sukuna, who had been walking into the living room behind you, froze in place and turned his back without protest. “Is everything okay?” he asked gently, his tone a careful blend of concern and confusion. “Don’t—don’t look,” you stammered, your voice cracking as you shielded your daughter. “She’s not dressed.” You clutched the towel tighter around her, the words burning your throat. Tears brimmed without permission, your heart hammering in your chest as memories flashed—sharp and brutal—in the back of your mind.

You didn’t look back at him. You couldn’t.

In another room, you sat her down and helped her into a clean pair of pajamas, smoothing the soft fabric over her small limbs with trembling hands. “My sweet girl… you can’t run around without clothes, okay?” you whispered, pulling her close against your chest.“Why, Mama?” she asked, peeking up at you with big, curious eyes. Her voice was innocent, unburdened. She didn’t understand the world could be cruel. You swallowed, brushing your fingers through her hair. “Because there are bad people out there. People who hurt little girls. And Mama and Papa want to protect you. You understand, right?” She nodded a little, clinging tighter, but then she frowned and pulled back just enough to cross her arms defiantly. “Papa not bad,” she said, her voice firm in the way only toddlers could manage. “Papa is not bad. Papa is good.” And just like that, your face crumpled with shame.

She was right.

You’d never seen Sukuna as anything but gentle with her. He never once gave you reason to fear—not even in the early days, not even after prison. He was patient, present, and soft with her in a way he never was with anyone else. But still, your trauma lived in the corners of your mind, slipping out uninvited. It was unintentional—but tonight, you’d let it spill onto both of them. “Let’s read a bedtime story,” you murmured, trying to make your voice light again as you tucked her into bed. “No!” she suddenly cried, shaking her head. “Papa read story too! With Mama!” The blush that hit your cheeks was molten-hot. You blinked down at her, her little fists balled up in protest. She loved her father. And in your panic… you had made her feel like maybe she wasn’t supposed to.

You stood up, swallowing your pride and walking quietly into the living room. Sukuna was sitting on the couch, scrolling on his phone like nothing had happened. He looked up when you entered, his brows slightly raised in question. “Hey, Suku,” you said gently, your voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah, hon?” he asked, setting the phone aside. “Do you… Do you want to read a bedtime story with us?” There was no hesitation. “Of course,” he said, standing immediately and walking over to you. He leaned in and kissed your forehead like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like you hadn’t just flinched earlier. Like his heart didn’t carry bruises too.

Later that night, once your daughter was sound asleep and the book was closed on her pillow, you both retreated to your room. The silence between you stretched. “We need to talk,” Sukuna said softly as the door clicked shut behind you. “I know,” you whispered, curling your arms around yourself. “I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I know you’d never hurt her. I just… I saw him. I saw him in my mind, and—” You broke off, burying your face in your hands as the sobs started to rise. He crossed the room without a word and gently pulled your hands away. In one swift, effortless movement, he picked you up and wrapped your legs around his waist, carrying you to the edge of the bed. You melted against his chest, your face in the crook of his neck.

“I’d never hurt our baby girl,” he said softly, his voice low and raw. “I know,” you breathed, but he tilted your chin up. “Do you?” he asked again, his eyes boring into yours—not accusing, but needing to know. You blinked hard, new tears spilling. “I do. I do, Suku. I just… I got scared. I saw him, and I couldn’t stop it. But I know you’re good. I know you’re a good dad.” He exhaled slowly, kissing your temple. “I just want to be part of it. I want the baths, the diapers, the stories… I want it all. But sometimes, I feel like I’m watching her grow up through glass.” You clutched his shirt, guilt thick in your throat. Even now, he wasn’t mad. He just wanted in. “How about this,” he offered gently, brushing a thumb down your cheek, “Tomorrow, you give her a bath, and I dress her. You can be in the room. Hell, you can narrate every step.” You let out a breathy laugh through your tears, pressing your forehead against his. “Okay. We can do that.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said again, holding him tighter. “I’m sorry, Suku.”

“I know,” he murmured, kissing your shoulder. “We’re gonna figure it out. You and me.” And with your legs still around his waist and his arms tight around your back, you believed him. You really did.

The next day was soft and sunny—the kind of warmth that coaxed smiles even from grumpy hearts. You, Sukuna, and your daughter spent the morning at the park, the afternoon sharing sticky snow cones, and the evening tucked into the back row of a movie theater watching some odd new animated film your daughter had been talking about all week. You glanced over halfway through. Sukuna was out cold, arms crossed, head tilted back just slightly, snoring softly.

You smiled to yourself. This was why you always picked the back row—so he could sneak naps during movies like this. But he never complained. For his little girl, Sukuna would sit through the worst plots, the loudest songs, and the brightest, most chaotic animations, pretending every second was magical. She didn’t know it yet, but she had her father wrapped around every finger. Afterward, the three of you grabbed dinner—simple, messy food that made your daughter giggle through every bite. But her yawns grew more frequent, and the inevitable post-sugar crankiness started creeping in.

“Alright, bath time,” you sang gently, trying to make it a game. She furrowed her brows and shook her head violently. “I don’t wanna!” she snapped, stomping her tiny foot with a pout. “You’ve been playing all day at the park, sweet girl. We don’t want any little bugs sneaking into bed with you,” you said, crouching to help her undress.“No!” she cried louder, tears springing to her eyes. “I want Papa! Not Mama!” The words hit like a slap. You froze, towel in your hand, the sting of rejection blooming beneath your ribs. This wasn’t the plan. You were supposed to bathe her. Sukuna would help her get dressed after. That was the compromise. That was the deal.

“C’mon baby,” you tried, voice trembling slightly. “Papa will help after your bath.”

“NO! I WANT PAPA! NO MAMA!” she screamed, her little fists balled in frustration. You didn’t know how long you stood there, but a soft knock pulled you from your thoughts. “Everything alright, my girls?” Sukuna’s voice came through the door, gentle, cautious. He peeked his head in. Your daughter reached out toward him like a lifeline. “I want Papa!” she sobbed. Your throat tightened. You didn’t want to cry in front of her. “C-could you bathe her?” you asked quietly, avoiding his eyes. “Of course,” he said immediately, stepping fully into the bathroom with calm, open arms. “Alright, up up up,” he chuckled, helping her out of her clothes. You sat against the bathroom wall, guilt curling up in your stomach like a second skin. Every instinct told you to run—to let them be alone—but fear kept you rooted.

“It’s okay, baby,” Sukuna murmured, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “We’ve got this.” He lifted your daughter into the tub with such natural ease, as if he’d been doing it forever. “You know how to bathe yourself, don’t ya’? You’re a big girl now,” he grinned, helping her squeeze the soap onto a little rag. He didn’t rush. Didn’t fumble. Just guided her gently, like he always did. “Gotta get under those arms, princess,” he chuckled as she missed a spot. You watched them quietly, a lump caught somewhere between your throat and your heart. The tenderness in his voice, the way he praised her, the patience. There was not a single dark thought in this man when it came to his child. Nothing but light. Eventually, you stepped out as he helped her wash her hair. By the time they emerged, she was wrapped in her soft pink robe, damp hair clinging to her cheeks, face flushed from warmth.

“All clean!” Sukuna beamed, carrying her into the room. “Wanna see if Mama will dress you?” She yawned big and shook her head. “No, Papa.” You tried to smile, nodding faintly and looking away as your eyes began to sting. Minutes passed. The door creaked open again. This time, Sukuna walked in alone. “Let’s go shower, baby,” he said quietly, walking to you without hesitation. He picked you up like you weighed nothing, cradling you against his chest as if you were just as small as her. Under the warm spray, he lathered your skin in slow circles, massaging your back, washing your hair, holding you upright when your knees trembled—not from exhaustion, but from emotion.

“I’m sorry I didn’t trust you,” you finally whispered, face pressed against his bare chest as the water beat down around you. He stroked your spine with firm, steady hands. “It’s alright, baby. You’re doing the best you can. I know that.” He dried you off just as tenderly as he had your daughter—wrapping you in your favorite robe, toweling your hair, pulling out your cotton panties and one of his soft t-shirts like he always knew which drawer to open.

He dressed you in silence, the kind of silence that didn’t need fixing. Only comfort. Only presence. Sukuna was a complicated man—vulgar at times, grumpy, brutally honest, fiercely protective. But in these quiet moments, he was something else entirely.

He was pure.

He was steady.

He was everything you had prayed for in a partner, and more than you ever thought you’d get.

And tonight, you saw that truth more clearly than ever.

#anime fanfic #fanfiction #ryomen sukuna #sukuna #sukuna x reader #jjk sukuna #sukuna ryomen #jujutsu kaisen sukuna #ryomen sukuna fluff #sukuna fluff #jujutsu sukuna

70 notes · View notes