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Before the sun kissed the horizon, Sukuna’s attendants got him ready for the day like routine. Bringing in a fresh set of clothes to your shared chambers, strips of human flesh awaiting him in the dining area for breakfast. The same before you got here, and after the matrimony. And in these very chambers do they leave a sloppy mess for you to deal with, along with a sideways glance to a brazier they’ll abandon. Clothes strewn across the floor, chests popped open and spilling with silks, partition still propped open.

All for you to deal with. The wife of the King of Curses.

“Impudent, bare-faced aides,” you mutter, expression caving inwards. And oh, do you realize how much you’re starting to sound like your husband.

It was only your first season here, and you’d been made a pushover. Initially, you hadn’t thought too much on it. They’d been contemptuous when you were simply the lowly courtesan that Ryomen Sukuna brought to his shrine to fuck on occasion.

Not a soul in these walls had reckoned that Ryomen Sukuna would ever take on a wife, much less you, so you welcomed the transition with grace.

You’d dressed yourself, bathed yourself, on occasion offering a hand in the kitchen to the faint servants even when your husband sneered at your docility. You had taken their adverseness as unfamiliarity, hoping that with time the tensions would ease up as they’d gotten to know you and slowly come around. But it hadn’t, they hadn’t welcomed you. If anything, the mistreatment only mounted.

And their abuse can only go so far, a woman pushed to her wits end.

Propping your chest open, you dress yourself in your kimono and paint your lips red. A fierce look contrasting the serenity coloring your face than you are used to.

Your husband is out hunting. His mount galloping through the mountains as he crosses either dwellers or game, bringing back whatever he can by mid-afternoon. This winter has been rather harsh, so it isn’t uncommon for him to unleash his blaze across an unsuspecting village and bring home treasures.

That gives you enough time to set things right, and if all else fails, you’ll at least avoid your husbands taunts while he basks in your humiliation. It seems you’ve married a cruel bastard. He’d lounge on his chair and guffaw at the thought of you standing up for yourself and failing.

Additionally, he’s resided with these people long before he’d come to know you, so who knows if he’ll take their side in such an accusation.

No, this is something you want to fix yourself.

—

“I have come to fetch you, My Lady. Is there assistance you require?”

With your posture ramrod straight, you pace the length of the serving room in the east wing of the shrine. Ages ago, it was built for guests, though Sukuna hosts nothing of the sort. It is simply ornamentation now, left to collect dust and wither.

“These zabutons. They have been eaten away by moths,” you express, tone level. “Replace them at once.”

Tsumigi, one of Sukuna’s attendants, dips her head, arms slipped into the sleeves of her kimono. “I see, My Lady. But it seems that Master Sukuna asked to keep this room untouched.”

Your gaze meets hers over your shoulder, lips thinned. You can hear the smirk playing in her tone. “And I am ordering you to find replacements. Do you dare to defy me?”

By now, you would have expected her to give in. Toss aside the harsh theatrics, and obey her lady. But instead, she meets your gaze with a grin.

“If it is to satisfy Master Sukuna, then yes.”

She excuses herself as you seethe, your eye twitching in disdain.

This is going to be harder than you thought. But you musn’t give up. This is as much your home as it is there’s, and you tend to see this through.

—

You arrive in the dining room for breakfast—the scent of steamed rice and dashi stock broth wafting into your nose and blossoming a hunger deep in your gut. For the most part, your breakfasts are uneventful, though they can be rather lonely.

You drum your fingers across the low table you’re seated at on a cushion, taking a sip of your steeped tea and allowing it to diffuse through your frayed nerves.

A new plan. One that will assert your authority over the attendants…

Or, you can gain their favor.

Both routes are rather humiliating. Attempting to mirror your husbands attitudes, or grovel as what he despises. You can picture his mocking of you crystal clear.

The soft taps of your fingers increase, sounding into the mahogany finish, cogs and wheels churning in your mind.

The vapor from your untouched and lively miso soup curls upwards, soft tendrils billowing up before dissipating.

Your gaze thins on a partition across the room, mindlessly studying the decorative flora.

Appeasement or authority.

You turn it over a countless number of times, chalking up half-witted plans, mentally cursing yourself out. It shouldn’t be this hard, seeing as you’d scavenged around half of your life for scraps before joining a brothel once you’d come of age.

Though you find yourself at a standstill with the people who call this place home.

And it is unbelievably infuriating.

Snap!

Suddenly, your chopsticks break in half in your hand, small fractures of splintered wood flinging across the table and littering the clean surface.

You mutter curses as a small girl finds her way to your side, deeply bowing her head and attempting to atone.

“I apologize, My Lady. Is the food not up to your standards?”

You find yourself stilling at her soft tone. Huh. Her sincerity is refreshing.

“Uh, no. It seems I am lacking an appetite this morning, but I can assure you that the food is plenty flavorful every other morning.”

You give her a half hearted smile as she wipes the table with a rag that was tucked into her apron. It seems she is part of the kitchen staff.

A groove hooks between your eyebrows. “I’m sorry, it seems that I do not recognize you. What is your name?” you offer her a tilt of your head, the corners of your lips twitching upwards when she nearly topples over her feet and straightens beside you.

“Furi, My Lady.”

You chuckle, soft, your eyes forming crows feet from how fitting her name is.

振り. A shake. A tremble.

A fall.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Furi. Now, tell me. Why is it that I have yet to come across you? After all, we share these walls,” you express, a genuine yet perplexed smile creasing your cheeks.

She lifts her gaze from the hem of her kimono, reddened ears and hazel eyes locking with yours. “It is a long story, but I am the chef, My Lady.”

Your eyebrows lift in intrigue. “So you say? A girl this young with such a knack for cuisine,” you smirk, lifting a spoon to dip it into the miso soup. You bring it back to your mouth and feel yourself slacken, your tensed up muscles unkinking. A sigh of relief puffs from your lips, lashes nearly dusting shut.

“You are too kind, My Lady.”

There is a beat of silence where she retreats to her previous spot, off in the corner. She makes herself undetectable, like how you didn’t notice her while your breakfast was served. The new sets of chopsticks find their way to your hands, before you begin working away at your steamed rice.

“If I may,” Furi starts again, and you find yourself glancing over your shoulder see her. “Is everything alright, My Lady?”

“Why wouldn’t they be?” you lie through a bite, globs of chewed rice sliding down your throat.

She hesitates, swaying where she stands. “The last thing I would want to do is overstep and upset you… but you seem quite… untuned as of late. Are you sure nothing is out of the sort?”

This young girl is quite attentive, though the intention of her actions escape you. Does she really seek to console you? Are you questioning her sincerity as it’s been so long since you felt something of that likeness?

You place your chopsticks down, turning to face her. You’ve met young girls like her during your time at the brothel—innocent yet capturing a word of compassion. Naturally, you would beckon her to come sit beside you, however you do not want to offend not scare her. So you speak to her from where you sit.

“How long have you been living her, Furi?”

“Just over two years now, My Lady.”

You nod, inwardly noting this information. She’s been here quite some time, and you’re wondering if she’s pissed someone off for being secluded to the kitchen but out of your sight.

“And what can you tell me of this shrine?”

She sways again, her feet doing a sort of dance beneath the flounce of her skirt. She’s nervous.

“There is no one here to punish you. You may speak freely,” you offer, eyeing as she smooths out the creases of outfit.

She is still reluctant, so you hope the silence will prompt her to speak. Swiftly, it does.

“Though I am confined to the kitchen, I am not without notice,” she begins, swallowing thickly and avoiding eye contact while she twists her hands between each other. “I see the way the attendants treat you.”

Her directness makes you falter, your mouth parting to say something but words fail you. What exactly are you supposed to say? Defend your tormentors? Complain about their aggression?

“I see,” you resort to acknowledgment, biting the inside of your cheek. “For a moment, I believed it was all in my head.” The chuckle that leaves you is dry, coating the inside of your throat like raw honey. Thick, uncomfortable.

“I apologize for it. On their behalf, you have done nothing to deserve such treatment,” she hastens her words, eyes widening as she watches you carefully. “However, a bit of context might prove beneficial.”

Context?

You cock your head to the side at her cryptic words, watching as she takes a tentative step forward.

“Well, then. Do tell,” you say, clearing your throat ad adjusting your posture. “It seems I am always outside of some long running, cruel joke.”

Furi glances past her shoulder, eyes squinting when she sees a shadow pass the parchment of the sliding doors. “Not here. Not now. I will tell you everything I know in due time,” she affirms, biting the inside of her cheek.

There are far too many attendants lurking nearby, and not enough time as the allotted duration for breakfast is already coming to an end.

“Very well. I hope to speak to you soon,” you reckon, returning to your cold rice and stale tea.

Furi bows and dismisses herself, and another attendant steps into the room to replace her.

It is Tsumigi yet again, a frequent contender to your misery. Her cheeks are flushed as if she’d been outside in the relentless cold tending to something, the hem of her skirt riding up and tucked into her sock awkwardly.

Bowing, she greets you and offers to clean the table, a snarl playing at her face. Most likely, the attendants are aware of your humiliation that unfolded in the serving room just an hour ago.

Gathering your bearings, you get to your feet, smothering a huff, and step past Tsumigi.

Wordlessly, you dismiss yourself before you offer her any more gossip for tea time.

—

The next few days, you find yourself in a bleak routine. Each morning grows colder, Sukuna’s place beside you empty every morning as he tends to foreign affairs. Scorching villages or plaguing the capital. Doing whatever he does to satisfy his insatiable hungers as the lands grow fallow.

It doesn’t help that you have to tend to the brazier on your own through the night as winter harshens, but you’ve endured worse.

Furi doesn’t serves you breakfast personally, that day she spoke to you serving as a fluke. The attendants seemed to be understaffed and placed the catering on the chef. But it comes to your attention that Tsumigi was busy with her stableboy that clarifying morning, the whispers of gossip curling through the shrine walls easier to pick up on as you attempt to make yourself as imperceptible as Furi.

Tsumigi is making a ridicule of you, and for why? You cannot come to fathom. The two of you barely exchange words aside from repulsing pleasantries.

It is late one night when Sukuna is bathing after coming home soaked in sweat and caked in dirt when you linger towards the kitchen.

You discover Furi hunched over a large pot, dipping her finger in to taste a broth that makes your stomach growl despite having dinner a mere few hours before.

“It smells wonderful,” you offer, tugging your obi loosely over your yukata after quickly throwing it on.

She nearly jumps out of her skin, setting her ladle down and bowing her head. “M-My Lady… I wasn’t expecting you at this hour,” she mutters, folding her hands into her kimono.

You close the proximity, leaning over to get a whiff of tomorrow’s lunch. “It seems you weren’t expecting me at all,” you press, lifting an eyebrow giving her a slow appraisal. “Is something of the matter? I have been waiting to speak with you.”

It wouldn’t be far-fetched for this young girl to avoid you after telling you such secrets, regretting every letting you in or offering clarification.

Furi cringes, her brunette bangs falling over her forehead. “I believe that one of the attendants might have been privy to our conversation.”

Your careless grin drops. “Is that so?”

She nods, again with her swaying.

You sigh, tongue darting out to wet your lips. “Are you safe? Have the attendants been mistreating you in anyway?”

Weakly, she shrugs. “Not any more than they already have.”

You deflate at her words. Her situation doesn’t seem much better than yours, except she doesn’t have a title to protect her. You endure passivity, while she very well may endure aggression. “I sincerely apologize, Furi. It was not my intention to get you tangled up in my troubles, but it seems that we have a lot to discuss.”

The attendants, besides the ones tending to Sukuna in the bath, have retired to their quarters, leaving the kitchen open for the two of you. Nabbing a stool, you rest beside her while she makes you a cup of tea and tends to her broth.

“There was a woman before you,” she starts, a look painting her face as if she wants to bite her tone off, “just three change of the seasons ago. With bushy eyebrows and hair as long as a yōkai and believed her nudity to be a pastime.”

An ache blooms behind your ribs, but you bite it down. It’d be foolish to think that you were Sukuna’s first anything, seeing as your occupation before this marriage had been as a courtesan.

Still, it hurts.

You smother a sigh but it escapes you.

A pang to dwell upon for another time.

You nod for her to continue.

“She was incredibly beautiful, a sorcerer just the same. A daughter of the Fugiwara clan with a technique to their standard. But…” she cocks her head to the side, as if reliving her memories in real time. “Master Sukuna spared no interest in her. He simply tolerated her. Her slaughter meant a headache in the capital that he had no patience to deal with.”

The broth simmers on a low kindled heat, the sound of ash sparking and wood shifting.

“She was wildly obsessed with Master Sukuna, clinging to his side and attempting to seduce him at every corner. He pried off her pawing hands when they grew too grabby, and, unsuccessfully, I tried to warn her. Her attitudes were dangerous, and she believed she formed a friendship with me when I wanted to avoid the spilling of blood across these tatami mats.”

Ah. Benevolence had been her fall from grace.

“The attendants here had quickly grown tired of her, irritated that her mood swings affected the Master’s, which in turn made their livelihoods all the more difficult.”

You drop your head, a sigh wound of stress tricking from your lips. “And they took their grievances out on you…”

Furi nods carefully, tending to the flickering flames beneath the pot.

“… and what they’re doing now is all the same. I am just another disposable woman they’ve come to reject.”

She doesn’t confirm your words, but her silence says enough. “There is more, My Lady.”

You find yourself tapping your bare foot against the cold flooring.

“One morning, she had challenged him to a fight, expressing her undying love and desire to be the individual to take his last breath.”

Her words, thick with distress, slam into you.

It is very clear how the result of the fight came out, seeing as Sukuna still breathes and she is nowhere to be found.

Your blood roars in your ears, your foot now at a bouncing cadence on the floor. You drown out her next words, but catch bits and pieces of it. It seems that following the slaughter of his past admirer, the capital had unleashed an outcry. Sukuna had no interest in hazing the capital as it brought him a plethora of benefits, but it was inevitable. The result of the achingly long war had been catastrophic—hundreds and thousands of men slaughtered by his hand before he stalked into the capital with the head of their general. The shrine itself reaped the consequences, attendants beheaded for a single misstep and food running scarce as hunting had been replaced with frequent battles.

It is a possibility that a battle near the capital had been when he’d first spotted you in your pleasure house.

“Furi, I must thank you,” you confess, running your fingers through your hair and getting to your feet. Move, you need to move. “There is plenty that I must do now, so I will dismiss myself. But make it known, I will not let this insubordination and blustery ravage on.”

You lean forward, placing a hand on her shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. Your heart clenches at the thought of this young girl enduring such harassment without a single shoulder to lean on.

“Leave it to me. I shall mend the divide that splinters the shrine.”

Furi’s tense expression melts away into something of relief, and you want to commit this image to memory to ensure you see this through.

“However, before I go, I have one last thing to ask of you.”

“Anything, My Lady.”

You release a strained breath.

“The name of this woman. What was it?”

—

You leave Furi in the kitchen, your bare feet slapping against the narrow corridors. The sconces adorning the walls flicker, flames licking at each other and casting your shadow long and obtuse across the ground.

Once you realize you’ve reached your husbands chambers, you realize how much time has passed between dinner and the present.

He will be curious as to where you’d gone off to. Often times, he grows restless in your absence.

You sigh. In all of the time you’d known Sukuna, he’d been vexingly talented at reading you and picking up on your mannerisms. You only pray that he is exhausted from his eventful day to spend his time analyzing you.

Though it seems you are woefully ignorant of just how energetic your husband tends to be, the sight you open his chambers to jarring.

He’s in nothing but his pale sirwal, his lower pair of arms crossed behind his back while he presses himself to the floor, and back up. His upper pair of arms flex, palms splayed on the ground, hands massive enough to curl around your throat and then some.

Push-ups.

Realistically, there has to be a way to maintain such a massive physique, so it isn’t outlandish that he works out. But still, you find yourself caught off guard. Innocent as ever, but heat still manages to fist low in your loins. Your gaze trails the length of his corded forearms, veins bulging across his biceps, deltoids rippling through effort.

Not the first instance to cross your mind, but you’d find immense pleasure in biting his arms.

You are well aware that he has sensed your presence ever since you found yourself in the kitchen up until you were standing outside his chamber doors, so he doesn’t flinch when you gawk at him from just a few feet away.

“Where did you run off to?” he presses through a grunt, lowering himself where his chin nearly brushes the straw mat.

Straight to the point.

“I was hungry, there were some fruits left in the kitchen,” you lie, steeling your nerves and praying you don’t betray yourself.

He continues his repetition, though he finally slides his attention upwards towards you. Deep pools of blood red assess you, his brow line furrowing in thought. “We had dinner merely an hour ago. Do not tell me you are with child and stuffing yourself for two.”

You splutter, shaking your hands, a nervous chuckle leaving you. “N-no, My Lord. Nothing of the sort.”

He finishes his workout, before standing to his feet and rolling his shoulders back, looking everything but convinced. “That title from your lips disgusts me and you know it. Do not address me as such again,” he mutters in mild irritation, padding over to the door and peeling his socks off.

You deflate, wanting to slap yourself for how easily you squirm under his scrutinizing attention. But, you cannot tell Sukuna of your current situation. There are a number of ways it could go once it is in his orbit, and you want to avoid majority of them.

Untying your obi, you toss it on the top of your chest before making your way towards the bed when a pair of heavy arms snake around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest.

“It seems that my efforts have gone to waste,” Sukuna mutters, the lower pair of his hands settling on your waist while the others work their way towards your breasts. Melting, you toss your head back against his torso, lashes dusting shut. He leans forward, sniffing the plush of your cheeks, of your lips. He has a thing for your scent, an admission you were privy to when he had you squirming beneath him. “This womb isn’t swollen with my heir.”

Weakly, you giggle through the butterflies, scrunching your nose. “We have yet to discuss such matters,” you deflect, reaching a hand up to grab a fistful of his silky, salmon-colored hair. “Take this up with me another time.”

Sukuna cocks his head thoughtfully, then spins you around and tosses you over his shoulder with terrifying ease. “Foolish woman. You think I do not see how you gawk at the stable hands son, how you beam with such idiocy at the thought of carrying your own?” He lands a harsh slap against your ass, punching a squeal out of your throat, before tossing you onto the bed.

“Speaking in circles. Tch. We might as well practice tonight,” he prompts, fingers curling around the waistband of his sirwal before dropping it, leaving only his loincloth.

Two heavy cocks straining against the too-small fabric. Two cocks you’ve felt slipping down your tongue, dragging inside your cunt, stretching your ass—.

You shake away the dizzy feeling mounting you, all splayed out with your parted yukata, your bare form his to feast his gaze upon. And he does so unabashedly, canines clicking as four crimson slits rest heavy on your lips, your breasts, dancing down your navel, to your spread legs pooling with arousal.

You wonder if he’s looked at her this way.

Inwardly, you cringe. You shouldn’t be thinking of her when you’re about to be taken by him.

The mouth rending his stomach grins with earnest, drool coating its lips in a sheer shine. The tongue hangs out limply, desperate for a taste of your sex.

“Come,” he mutters, two arms folded across his chest with the other two propped at his hips. His voice, impossibly deep and raspy, sends heat prickling over your skin, coupled with a flush that suits you.

You crawl to him, slowly and allowing your hips to sway freely beneath your yukata, not once tearing your gaze from his hardened stare. His pectoral muscles shift, a muscle in his jaw pulsing like he’s holding back from pouncing at you.

You come to a slow before him, lifting off of your haunches and kneeling. Your eyeline barely meets his chest, allowing you to bask in the immense size difference between the both of you.

Sukuna chuckles low, running his tattooed tongue over his teeth. “You have always been a bad liar.”

You feel your heart dip behind your ribs.

“Excuse me?”

His lower pair of hands come down to grab your wrists, holding them up beside your head. He leans forward, face mere inches from yours, his warm and iron-laced breath fanning over your lips. “Your breath smells the same as it did during dinner. I didn’t take my wife for a cheat,” he grunts, upper lip peeling back in disgust to bare his teeth. It’s true, there are no remnants of citrus or sweetness hanging from your lips. “Now tell me. What affairs were you tending to between dinner and now?”

Unbearably, your pulse quickens.

You twist in his grip, but his fingers only tighten, nearly bruising your skin. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you grit out.

The seams of his mouth curl upwards, before he’s closing the distance between his cheek and yours, rubbing them against each other. His facial crest, the texture like roughened and cracked tree bark, digs into your flesh and you bite back a curse. “My wife, stubborn and obstinate as always,” he grumbles into your ear before catching your lobe with his teeth. You hiss, casting a cheek away from his cruelty, before one of his hands fly towards your chin and connects your lips.

Betraying yourself, you hum into the kiss, your spine arching backwards as he folds you impossibly. His tongue, heavy and slick, presses down on your own and strokes it reverently. Hands—everywhere—begin to tug your yukata off and discard it, before something wet laps at your pebbled nipples.

You pull away, sliding your gaze down to your wet areola, Sukuna’s stomach mouth desperate for a taste of you. You peer back up to your husband, something perverse and frantic coiling between your silky folds. “W-we’ve never…”

Never used the stomach mouth in bed, is what you were going to say. Though you won’t lie and say you haven’t thought of it.

Sukuna’s nostrils flare, lower pair of eyes focused on your saliva-slick lips while the upper pair glower at you, releasing the unrelenting grip from your wrists. “Afraid? The brat wants to take it slow and easy, huh?” he taunts, head cocked to an angle.

You scoff, arms falling by your side. “Nothing of the sort.” Your coital acts through the last couple of seasons have been raw, and debauched—Sukuna lapping the blood of his freshest kill from your navel before devouring your sex, to taking you with both cocks, your obscene noises loud enough for the entire shrine to bear witness to.

So, no. Slow and easy wouldn’t make much sense seeing how he handles you with those four hands of his.

“Then quiet that fucking mouth of yours,” he scowls, before he’s on you again.

Teeth crashing, saliva swapping, noses bumping.

Hungry. So fucking hungry.

And angry. What Sukuna does not tolerate, especially from his betrothed, is deceit.

The tongue mouth laps at your tits, occasionally tweaking an erect bud between it’s teeth and tugging just to earn a whimper from you, your maw parting open for Sukuna to gag you on his tongue. Writhing and squirming in his grasp, you attempt to tamp down the pleasure darting down your spine, nearly leaking your essence onto the sheets, but it is inevitable. You surrender to his touch like a sinner seeking repentance.

Two hands cradle your face while the other two knead the flesh of your ass like dough, squeezing and groping. His stomach tongue slathers spit across your chest, and you mewl through the sensitivity, hips rocking and thighs rubbing together for friction.

“That desperate, huh?” your husband mutters against your lips, and in your urgency, you nod quickly. The two hands cradling your head shift—one to grip the back of your neck and face your gaze upwards to meet his, and the other drags down between the valley of your breasts, down your navel, until he’s sliding the meaty digit across your swollen clit.

You jolt at the contact, but much movement isn’t possible as he keeps you place at the nape and the waist.

“Is this amusing?” he quizzes, unfurling to his full height and staring at your nude form down the bridge of his crooked nose. “Running circles around your husband like some charlatan.”

Cruel bastard.

“I-I am not—.”

“I can feel your pulse jumping under my thumb,” he snaps, leaning into your face with a snarl. “Have these walls kept you bored in my absence?”

You frown, a muscle in your jaw ticking. “Something like that.”

He clicks his tongue at your vague reply, clearly unimpressed. “Tch. Still as cryptic as ever.”

Quickly, his open palm slaps sharply against your clit, before two fingers push past the ring of resistance in your cunt and stretch you open. A mouth forms on his palm, a drooling mess, lapping at your hood and prying apart your silky folds.

“Looks like I’ll just have to coax it out of you.”

As if the brazier has been finally warmed, coals tended to and sifted, the heat in the room mounts as he splits you on his hand. Calloused digits from decades of labor and torment drag down your gummy walls, all while the open maw on his palm collects your juices and nibbles at your clit.

He doesn’t stop open-mouth kissing you. He barely allows you to come up for air, tamping down your noises with his mouth. Your breasts are aching and wet, the nubs perky and sensitive from the continuous stimulation.

His towering form pushes you down onto the sheets, slotting his massive body between your legs. The stretch is painful, but you curl your legs around his waist and dig your ankles into the divots on the small of his back.

“You’re a pretty little thing, bird,” he mutters against your lips, his wrist picking up a brutal cadence as his fingers reach places that make you whine and tense. “It’s a shame you’re a fool.”

His words carry a heat behind them, adamant on undoing you to figure out what you're keeping from him. He knows you may be anserine, but you're not an utter idiot, so the sin you’d committed and are keeping from him cannot be too great.

Still, he will have his fun breaking you.

It’d been a bit of time since he’d had his hands on you—sorely exhausted from the long days and even longer nights, reserved to his chambers once he returns from the bathing house over the last couple of weeks—so the stimulation has you huffing and puffing. Clit woefully sensitive, mounds on your chest sore, and a heat fisted low in your gut that only Sukuna has managed to unspool compared to the men you’ve been with back at the brothel. Pathetically, you claw at his chest, pushing to slow his brutal pace, scissoring motions inside your cunt and stretching your walls wide. After all, you’ll need to accommodate his girth in time.

“Oi. Paws off,” he complains disgruntled, lower pair of eyes widening. One hand finds both of yours, pinning them down above your head while he laughs sardonically.

And oh, how he enjoys such a debauched sight. Your bare form, flushed and wet and squirming beneath him while he taunts you. Whittles you down to some hapless mutt.

He works you through your first orgasm, finger pads repeatedly swiping over that tender spot and feeling the plush muscle jump. A strangled moan is punched out of you, legs trembling over his thighs and stomach caving inwards. Your cunt squeezes his two digits like a snare, sucking him in as you buck your hips into his palm.

But the King of Curses does not stop there, no. Giving your cunt a few slaps, he works his two fingers back in while his other hand finds your puckering hole. You freeze up, muscles spasming as you lock eyes with him, slick finger coated in your arousal rubbing over the entrance.

“B-both?”

“The idiocy of you,” he scoffs, one of his upper hands gripping your cheeks to squish them together. You pout, lower lip jutting out, before you feel the burning stretch. A finger, pushing into your ass. “I’ve no patience for stupid questions.”

He peers down, a glob of spit trickling from his lips pelting your cunt. It sloshes with your juices, before you feel the slick wetness cascade down to your asshole.

“M-my god!” you squeal, back arching up off of the mattress, now being speared from both holes. The curl and flex of his fingers as he finds all those sensitive spots is hypnotizing, drool leaking from the seam of your lips, eyes rolling back into your skull until all you see is black.

“Not my name,” he sneers, pressing another inch deeper while you wriggle.

Another orgasm. And another. And another.

You’ve made a wet, sloppy mess across his sheets, completely unaware of how many blissful peaks he’s worked you over and through, each more mind-numbing than the last. Your ears ring dully, eyes glossing over with a thing gossamer of wet luster. When you meet his pumps, he praises you, kissing the bevel of your jaw. When you sob and squirm against him, he clicks his tongue and gazes at you with blown pupils and a look of pity.

Your form is perspired, covered in a thick coat of sweat and cum, nearly breathless as you huff and puff. Nothing coherent leaves your lips, arousal stuffing the ridges of your brain like cotton.

Fucked dumb by his fingers.

“N-no more, ‘Kuna,” you mumble out, your holes aching and still stretched open. How he has not cramped in his fingers is beyond you.

The raspy chuckle from your husband is enough evidence that he’s nearly at his wits end—hefty cocks hard against the fabric of his loincloth, brushing against the inside of your quivering thigh. But one thing about Ryomen Sukuna is that he will never yield first, even if it’s dragging him up a wall. “The dove is spent, hm?” he cooes, the side of his lip curling upwards. “I can stop anytime. Just tell me the truth and I can release you from this exertion.”

You muffle a whine into his pillow, wrists aching from where he keeps them pinned above your head. “It is n-nothing, Sukuna.”

His eye twitches, before his wrists starts to pick up a speed and you squeal. “Okay, okay! …I visited the c-chef in the kitchen.”

His eyebrows dart inwards. “The scrawny girl? What for?”

“Release me first.” you mumble, Sukuna’s fingers nearly brushing against your womb.

Your scowl has mirth swirling in those thinned crimson irises. “Do not think that you are in the position to make demands.”

A beat passes before you puff air from your nose. The sooner you tell him, the sooner he’ll release you and you can figure out a plan for Tsumigi and the other attendants. “Fine. Why didn’t you tell me about Yorozu?”

His smile falters for a moment, nearly imperceptible, before he releases your hold and peels away from you. Fingers slip from your holes and you collapse in exhaustion, keeping your eyes trained on your husbands rolling shoulders. He’s silent for a few moments, while he finds his discarded kimono and slides his arms through them. “It is insignificant. Besides you.” He waves a dismissive hand, bare feet padding over to a chest propped open.

That does nothing to soothe the ache unfurling around your heart and squeezing the organ. “If it is so “besides me,” then I do not understand why I had to be kept in the dark.”

He chuckles, searching for his pipe. Two of his fingers rub together, kindling a flame he uses to smoke the pipe. “Former lovers are trivial. You are my wife while she was just some,” he inhales, smoke billowing in his lungs. “Whore I kept around for my affairs.”

“She was in love with you and you murdered her. This wasn’t some fucking concubine.”

He stirs, folding his lower pair of arms over his chest. The silence has you feeling filthy, the cum between your lungs a sticky mess.

Sukuna pads over to the low table, a bowl of nuts awaiting him. He sits down, legs folded beneath him, mildly entertained while he stares bleakly at you. He pops a nut into his mouth, then smokes his pipe. Casual, insouciant.

You attempt to smother a groan but it escapes you, lifting from the bed to get dressed. You slip your yukata on, then tie your obi across your waist. “If nothing but silence is what you offer me, then I shall retire to my chambers.”

The silence is deafening while you adorn yourself.

“Name.” Sukuna suddenly grumbles from the dark corner, moonlight filtering through the drapes distorting him in the shadows. He looks menacing, like the beast he is.

“What?” you blurt out, fixing your hair and attempting to look semi-normal before you enter the halls. Who knows what’s waiting out there, if your disheveled image will be even more fuel to gossip?

“I want a fucking name. Who told you of Yorozu? Was it that chef girl?”

You roll your eyes, before you parrot his words right back to him with a pinched smirk over your shoulder. “It is insignificant. Besides you.”

You don’t know how, but in the blink of an eye, Sukuna closes the proximity between the two of you. One hand curls around your throat before he’s pushing you against a wall, his face contorting in utter disdain and disgust. He regards you like a slab of meat to be devoured come morning.

“What I tell you, and what I keep from you is up to my discretion. Mine,” he snarls, fingers tightening around your throat. Not choking, just firm. Keeping you in place. “What I won’t tolerate are attendants that poke and prod into my history then blab to my wife. Now…” the corner of his lip twitches upwards, as if he is enjoying this. “Name.”

Your husband is a sadist.

You hold his gaze, inexorable, unwilling to yield to his cruelty. “She told me you didn’t love her.”

“She’s got something right,” Sukuna jeers, another hand coming to tilt your chin up. Yet, something in his gaze almost… softens. The sharp edges of his russet eyes melting away, curled and mocking smirk sliding into something else. “The only time I’d felt anything for her was when I’d slashed her in the chest, and then ate her for dinner.”

You freeze, feeling your heart cinch.

“And what reason do I have to lie?” he adds on, head tilting when his lower pair of eyes slide down to your lips, then to the door. “There is a shrine I have to look after. Her presence threatened it.”

Your fingers twitch at your side, not quite sure what to do with his seemingly genuine confession.

He clears his throat, returning his gaze to you. Now, he regards you like something delicate. “If she had meant anything to me, wouldn’t you think she’d still be with us, bird?”

Ryomen Sukuna truly has no reason to lie to you.

He can bed anyone he wants. Yet, instead of keeping you as some concubine, he chose to seal this relationship with matrimony. With titles. With an unspoken promise.

He chose to be with you.

You don’t address the suffocating tension between the two of you. You heart slamming against your ribcage and a lump nestling into your throat, dropping your gaze. “Furi, the chef. She is not at fault, Ryomen.”

Your husband eyes you, waiting for you to continue.

Coughing the lump in your throat away, you fidget with your kimono, chin still held up. “The attendants have been… undutiful,” you settle on that word, not quite sure how to tread upon the unfamiliar territory.

You wait for his reaction, but he just continues to watch you. Like a predator studying its prey.

“Clothing left a mess, glares across the halls, insubordination,” you emphasize the last word in disdain. “I have been left to deal with their ostracization in your absence, Sukuna. Furi only told me why they may feel this disdain towards me.”

You bite the inside of your cheek.

“She’s been the only friend I have.”

Sukuna’s grip loosens on your chin and throat, his expression settling into something you’ve seen when his advisors approach him. Before he mounts his horse and heads into battle.

Something hungry for war, for a need to unleash his fiery wrath.

“I need names. Or shall I just turn this fucking shrine upside down and start anew?” he chuckles maniacally in sheer rage, padding towards the door.

Fuck.

Leaping forward, you grab his wrist and halt him, eyes staring up at him and practically pleading. “Sukuna! Wait, before you do something rash—.”

“When they insult you, they insult me,” he growls, shoulders rippling with effort and you know that all he sees is red.

It seems you misjudged him. Ryomen Sukuna would go to the ends of the earths for you. To hell and back.

“Sukuna, just— give me a moment,” you emphasize, nearly begging him back inside the chambers. Fire radiates off of him in shudders, like he’s prepared to set this shrine ablaze for you.

Scorned, he stares at you for a few moments before stepping back inside, arms folded over his chest. “So this is what you were so fucking adamant on keeping from me? What, was your pride threatened?” It almost seems laughable to him, you of all people worried about humiliation.

You married a beast at the end of the day.

Dejectedly, you sigh, orbs darting between Sukuna’s left and right ones. “I… I didn’t think,” you nibble on your lip. “I was worried you would take their side.”

Ryomen Sukuna practically gawks at you now, before a huff of humored air jumps from his chest. “What?”

You toss your head back, running your hands through your hair. “Tsumigi, she’s one of your oldest servants. How am I supposed to complain to you about her when I’ve barely been here half the year?”

Another laugh tumbles from him. “You must be the asinine person I’ve come across.”

“Enough of the jokes, Sukuna, I—.”

You freeze.

Sukuna’s lips are on yours, his hands cupping your cheeks. His tongue swiping against your lower lip and tugging on the plump skin.

Not soft, but rough. Possessive.

You don’t know how long it takes for him to pull back. Slightly breathless, pupils that were pinpricks a moment ago now saucer wide.

“You. I chose you, brat,” he huffs, large palms splayed on the side of your head and digging into your scalp. “That Tsuragi servant means absolutely nothing to me.”

“Tsumigi,” you correct, but he ignores you.

“When I had decided that marriage was the best option for this… relationship, I was also ready to call this place your home. And being the wife of the King of Curses…” he snarls, hooking a thumb into your mouth and pressing down on your tongue. You can’t bite down the whimper that resonates from you. “… means your word matters just as much as mine here.”

Despite yourself, your lip trembles, warmth unfurling over your skin.

Hearing the rare affection in his words makes you wonder why you ever doubted him in the first place.

He tugs his thumb out from between your lips, swiping your cheek, head cocked to the side while his four eyes appraise you in the moonlight.

“This… I must mend myself, Sukuna,” you whisper, form leaning in towards him, into his heat.

He chuckles, all raspy and taunting. “It is not yours to fix, you foolish bird. A disobedient, mouthy whore is not someone I will allow to reside within the shrine walls.” A beat. “Unless it’s you.”

You giggle, a hand coming down to smack his chest, but he catches it with a sly grin. “No, really. I have to make an impression on them. Make them remember who they respond to.”

His four eyes search for dubiety, before he retires. “My, my. It seems that my influence here is rubbing off on you,” he points out, a hand finding the small of your back and pulling you flush against him.

You feel his two hardened cocks, needy and begging for your attention, press into your abdomen.

He leans down, his coppery and nutty breath fanning over the crown of your ear.

“And I must say… jealousy does not suit you, sweetheart.”

—

The days that follow, you keep your head held up high.

Sukuna returns to his daily retreats, but ensures that he will cleave whoever missteps dare you speak up. If he hears of it, whether or not you like it, he’ll be feasting on an attendant for dinner.

But you, you find your cadence.

You accompany Furi in the mornings, legs dangling off of a large stool while she chats your ear off, broth and meat lilting in the air, all tantalizing. She’s been promoted to head of the kitchen, meaning all servants must answer to her.

Most do not reject it, heads bowed in genuine reverence and tones amicable.

Tsumigi has been demoted from kitchen staff to the stables—where her stable hand lover can see her scooping up horse excrement's. It isn’t long that you here that he has moved returned to his wife at home, and she has grown cold and bitter.

It isn’t perfect, but your actions against Tsumigi have other attendants treating you kinder. In turn, they learn what kind of person you are.

Cordial, organized, timely.

A friend to most.

You simply have to wait for everyone to fall into step.

Sukuna grows irritated easier than before, more and more missteps he’d scowl at resulting in a severed limb he could gnaw on.

You do what you can to placate him, but he’s kept an ear open for who has mistreated you. The so-called gossip he rejects keeps him well-informed as to who he needs to split open.

And not long after, you come back from the forest to find Tsumigi’s decapitated head held up by your husband like some trophy.

A ghastly sight.

Your husband— the cruel, detestable bastard.

One that would kill and haze the entire world for you.

One that ensures your safety, and your comfort in the place you can now safely call home.

He may not be a picture perfect companion seeing as he refers to himself as a king and finds pleasure in your soreness, but one thing he won’t allow is some measly human being to cross you.

Free food, a fresh kill, and a happy wife he gets to come home to at night.

Some people say childhood friendships never last—that they're as fragile as the paper airplanes you used to launch from the second-story window of Iwaizumi's bedroom, soaring briefly before crashing into the unforgiving earth below. But they're wrong. At least they were wrong about the three of you. You, Hajime, and Tooru had been constants in each other's lives since before conscious memory formed, your existences so thoroughly intertwined that sometimes you couldn't remember where your personality ended and theirs began. Your mothers still liked to tell the story of how three-year-old Hajime had stubbornly planted himself between you and a neighborhood dog that had wandered too close, his small fists clenched and ready to defend you despite his own obvious fear. Or how Tooru had wailed inconsolably when your family considered moving to Tokyo for your father's job when you were seven, staging a one-child protest on your front lawn until his mother dragged him home, embarrassed but secretly understanding. The move never happened, and sometimes in your darkest moments, you wondered how different life would have been if it had—if you'd never grown up witnessing Hajime's quiet evolution from the soft-spoken boy with perpetually dirt-stained knees to the powerhouse ace who could silence a gymnasium with a single spike.

People always assumed Tooru was the glue that held your trio together—charismatic, beautiful Tooru with his perfect smile and carefully crafted persona. But you knew better. It was Hajime who anchored you both, his unwavering reliability providing the foundation upon which your friendship was built. When Tooru pushed himself too far during practice, it was Hajime who forcibly dragged him home, his hand rough on the back of Tooru's neck but his eyes betraying genuine concern. When you struggled through advanced mathematics in your third year, staying up until your vision blurred and your fingers cramped around your pencil, it was Hajime who appeared at your window at midnight with energy drinks and his meticulously organized notes, refusing to leave until the equations made sense. "I'm not doing this for you," he'd grumble, but the lie was transparent. He had always been a terrible liar.

The three of you had created your own language over the years—a complex system of inside jokes, half-finished sentences, and meaningful glances that outsiders could never hope to decipher. You could communicate volumes with just the quirk of an eyebrow or the set of your shoulders. You knew exactly which smile of Tooru's was genuine and which was manufactured for his fangirls. Hajime could tell when your laughter was forced, calling you out with a simple, "Cut the crap," that somehow never felt harsh coming from him. And both you and Hajime had become experts at reading the subtle signs of Tooru's insecurity—the infinitesimal tightening around his eyes, the way his fingers would twist just a little too hard in the hem of his shirt. In those moments, you'd exchange a glance with Hajime, an entire conversation happening in seconds: Your turn or mine? He needs us. Again.

High school slipped away like sand through fingers, impossible to grasp no matter how tightly you clenched your fist around the memories. The inevitability of separation loomed like a thundercloud on the horizon, impossible to ignore but easy to pretend wasn't there—until graduation day arrived with its brutal finality. Tooru was Argentina-bound, his talent too immense for Japan to contain. Hajime had chosen Tokyo for sports medicine, his practical nature guiding him toward a future that would keep him connected to the sport even after his body could no longer withstand the punishing demands of competitive play. And you—well, you'd applied to universities in Tokyo almost as an afterthought, your real motivation transparent to anyone who knew you well enough. Where Hajime went, you followed. It had always been that way, even when Tooru was there to complete your triangle.

The night before Tooru's departure had been uncharacteristically subdued. No dramatic declarations, no forced cheerfulness. Just the three of you sprawled across the floor of his half-packed bedroom, surrounded by the artifacts of a childhood about to be left behind. Tooru's eyes had been red-rimmed, though he'd deny crying if confronted. Hajime had been quieter than usual, his normally expressive face carefully blank as he absently tossed a volleyball from hand to hand. You'd lain between them, your head on Hajime's thigh, your feet in Tooru's lap, feeling the physical connection between the three of you like a living thing, already grieving its imminent loss.

Tokyo welcomed you and Hajime with indifferent arms, the city too vast and impersonal to care about two more people from the countryside. Your apartment was cramped and overpriced, a fifth-floor walk-up with temperamental plumbing and walls thin enough to hear your neighbors' most intimate moments. But it was yours—yours and Hajime's—and there was something thrilling about that possession, about building something that belonged just to the two of you. No parents, no Tooru, no history except what you carried with you.

The first few weeks had been a chaotic blur of unpacking, getting lost on subway lines, discovering which convenience store had the best onigiri, and learning to navigate the strange new terrain of living with Hajime without the buffer of Tooru between you. You'd seen glimpses of this Hajime before—the one who existed when Tooru wasn't around to command attention—but never for extended periods. Never with this raw, unfiltered intimacy that came from sharing a bathroom sink and seeing each other first thing in the morning, bleary-eyed and defenseless.

Hajime in private was both exactly who you'd always known and someone entirely new. The gruffness remained, but without Tooru to focus it on, it softened around the edges. He still exercised with religious dedication, but now you witnessed the full extent of his routine—the way sweat gleamed on his skin as he did push-ups in the living room, his t-shirt clinging to the muscles of his back, the controlled rhythm of his breathing as he counted reps under his breath. You found yourself watching him more often than you'd care to admit, cataloging the details you'd somehow missed despite years of friendship: the small scar at the corner of his jaw from a childhood biking accident, the way one eyebrow lifted slightly higher than the other when he was skeptical, how his hands—always so capable and strong—could be surprisingly gentle when he absentmindedly massaged your shoulders after you'd been hunched over textbooks for too long.

Tooru's absence was strange and disorienting, like losing a limb. The phantom pain of missing his dramatic entrances, his ridiculous poses, his ability to fill a room with his presence alone. Video calls helped, but they were a pale imitation of having him physically present, his voice tinny through speakers, his image frozen by bad connections at the most inopportune moments. Still, there was comfort in seeing his face, in watching him gesticulate wildly as he described his new teammates, his new apartment, his new life that was happening without you. Sometimes you'd catch a shadow crossing his features when you mentioned something you and Hajime had done together, a flicker of something like loneliness before his practiced smile slid back into place. Those moments cut deep, made you question whether you'd made the right choice following Hajime instead of Tooru.

But then Hajime would do something—drop a cup of tea beside you while you studied, press his shoulder against yours during a crowded subway ride, fall asleep on the couch with his head tilted toward your bedroom as if even unconscious he was attuned to your presence—and the doubt would dissolve. There was an easiness between you now, a comfortable silence that had never been possible with Tooru around to fill every quiet moment with chatter. You learned that Hajime hummed tunelessly while cooking, that he folded his laundry with military precision, that he secretly read historical fiction before bed. He discovered your habit of talking to yourself when concentrating, your collection of ridiculous socks, your inability to remember to buy toilet paper despite multiple reminders.

The physical awareness of him grew by imperceptible degrees, like water slowly rising in a basin. You noticed things you'd never allowed yourself to notice before—the breadth of his shoulders under thin cotton t-shirts, the tanned column of his throat when he tilted his head back to drink, the way his hair fell across his forehead when freshly washed. His presence in a room changed the very air, charged it with something you couldn't name but could feel in the pit of your stomach, in the suddenly rapid beat of your heart.

Sometimes you'd catch him looking at you with an expression you didn't recognize, his eyes dark and unreadable. It would last only a second before he'd turn away, jaw tight, shoulders tense. In those moments, uncertainty would creep in, cold fingers of doubt trailing along your spine. Had you done something wrong? Was he regretting the decision to live together? Did he wish he'd chosen a different roommate, one who didn't leave hair in the shower drain and forget to buy groceries when it was their turn?

Then came the night that changed everything—though perhaps change isn't the right word. Perhaps it was more of an awakening, a sudden violent clarity washing over you like ice water, forcing you to see what had been right in front of you all along.

It was a Thursday evening in late October, the kind where autumn's chill had finally committed to its descent, no longer teasing with occasional warm afternoons but settling into the city with grim determination. Rain had been falling steadily since morning, not the dramatic downpour that would give you an excuse to call off plans, but the persistent, monotonous kind that soaked through layers regardless of umbrellas or hoods. You'd arrived home with damp socks and a foul mood, having stepped in a puddle that went halfway up your calf on the final stretch to your apartment building.

Hajime had beaten you home, evident from his muddy running shoes haphazardly kicked off in the entryway (a habit that normally irked you, but today seemed strangely endearing in its familiarity) and the smell of something savory simmering on the stove. The apartment was warm after the damp chill outside, steam fogging the kitchen window as Hajime stood with his back to you, shoulders broad beneath a worn gray t-shirt, the muscles of his forearms visible as he rolled up his sleeves to wash something in the sink.

"I'm home," you called unnecessarily, dropping your sodden bag on the floor with a wet thud.

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes taking in your bedraggled state with a quick sweep that somehow missed nothing. "You look like shit."

"Charming as always, Hajime," you muttered, but there was no heat in it. This was your rhythm, comfortable and worn like an old sweater.

"Take a hot shower before you catch something. Food'll be ready in twenty." He turned back to whatever he was doing, dismissing you with the easy confidence of someone who knew his suggestions would be heeded.

And they would be, because he was right—you were freezing, your clothes uncomfortably damp and clinging to your skin. But something stubborn in you resisted the immediate compliance, a childish urge to assert some kind of control in a day that had seemed determined to strip it from you at every turn.

"What are you making?" You moved closer instead, peering around his solid frame to see what was in the pot he was stirring. The kitchen was small, barely enough room for two people to move comfortably, and your shoulder brushed against his back as you leaned in.

"Curry. My mom's recipe." A pause, then almost grudgingly: "The one you like."

Something warm unfurled in your chest at that, at the knowledge that he'd chosen to make your favorite comfort food on this miserable day. It was so typically Hajime—gruff words masking thoughtful actions, caring for you in ways so subtle and consistent they were easy to overlook. He'd always been like that, from the time you were children and he'd wordlessly handed you his jacket when you shivered at the summer festival, to now, cooking you dinner after what he'd somehow intuited had been a terrible day.

"Let me help," you said, already reaching for the cabinet where plates were kept.

He made a noncommittal grunt that you interpreted as assent, and for several minutes you worked in companionable silence, moving around each other in the cramped kitchen with the unconscious choreography of people who had shared space for years. You set the table while he finished the curry, occasionally brushing against each other in the confined space—his hand on the small of your back as he reached past you for the rice cooker, your arm grazing his as you grabbed utensils from the drawer. Each point of contact sent a small jolt through your system, like static electricity, there and gone so quickly you barely registered it on a conscious level.

"Can you get the good glasses?" Hajime nodded toward the upper cabinet. "The ones your mom sent."

You moved to comply, stretching up on tiptoes to reach the cabinet above the stove where the nice glassware was kept—a housewarming gift from your mother, who had insisted that proper adults needed proper glasses, not the mismatched collection of promotional cups and chipped mugs you'd accumulated through high school. Your fingertips just grazed the shelf, not quite able to reach.

"Move," Hajime said from behind you, the single word a command rather than a request. Before you could respond, his chest pressed briefly against your back as he reached over you, his body heat seeping through your damp clothes and making you acutely aware of just how cold you'd been. He grabbed two glasses with ease, his height advantage making the task effortless where you had struggled.

As he set them on the counter, one slipped from his grasp—perhaps because of residual soap from washing his hands, or just one of those inexplicable moments of clumsiness that happen to even the most coordinated people. It shattered on the tile floor with a crash that seemed disproportionately loud in the small kitchen, glass fragments exploding outward in a glittering radius that included where you stood in your socked feet.

What happened next occurred so quickly that your brain struggled to process the sequence of events. One moment you were standing there, staring dumbly at the broken glass surrounding your feet; the next, Hajime's hands were on your waist, large and warm and uncompromising as they lifted you bodily off the ground as if you weighed nothing at all. There was a suspended second of weightlessness, of complete surrender to his strength, before he deposited you firmly on the countertop, your legs dangling a safe distance above the hazardous floor.

"Don't move," he ordered, voice dropping to a lower register than you were accustomed to hearing from him, authoritative and unyielding in a way that sent an unexpected shiver racing down your spine. "You'll cut yourself."

And then he was crouching down, carefully gathering the larger shards of glass, his movements precise and methodical. You sat frozen on the countertop, but it wasn't the broken glass that had immobilized you—it was the sudden, visceral awareness of Hajime as a man, not the boy you'd grown up with. The realization crashed over you with such force that it momentarily robbed you of breath, of thought, of any coherent response beyond the thundering of your heart against your ribs.

His hands. God, his hands. How had you never truly seen them before? Large enough to span your waist with ease, strong enough to lift your entire body without apparent effort. The same hands that had patched up your scraped knees as children, that had spiked volleyballs with devastating power in high school, that now moved with careful precision as they collected broken glass. The dichotomy was dizzying—such strength capable of such gentleness, such careful control harnessing such raw power.

And the way he'd lifted you—so effortlessly, so decisively, without hesitation or strain. As if the most natural response to potential danger was to simply remove you from its path, to take control of the situation and your body in one fluid motion. There had been nothing sexual in the gesture, nothing overtly intimate, and yet heat bloomed low in your abdomen, spreading outward until even your fingertips tingled with it.

This was Hajime—your Hajime—who had seen you with chicken pox and braces, who had held your hair back when you vomited after your first ill-advised experiment with alcohol at sixteen, who knew all your embarrassing secrets and childhood fears. And yet suddenly he was also this stranger with broad shoulders and capable hands and a voice that commanded obedience without question. How had you never noticed the way his t-shirt stretched across his chest when he reached up, or how the tendons in his forearms flexed as he worked, or the sheer masculine solidity of him occupying space in your shared kitchen?

"You okay?" His voice cut through your spiraling thoughts, and you realized he was looking up at you from his crouched position, brow furrowed in concern. "You look flushed. Are you getting sick?"

Sick? Yes, perhaps that explained the sudden heat in your cheeks, the difficulty drawing a full breath, the way your entire body seemed to vibrate with a new awareness you couldn't name. Easier to blame it on illness than to confront the truth—that something fundamental had shifted in your perception of the man before you, something that couldn't be undone or ignored.

"I'm fine," you managed, your voice sounding strange to your own ears, higher than usual and slightly breathless. "Just... startled."

He grunted, clearly unconvinced, and went back to cleaning up the glass. You watched him in silence, cataloging details with newfound intensity—the way his hair fell across his forehead as he bent forward, the strong column of his neck disappearing into the collar of his t-shirt, the flex and release of muscles in his shoulders as he moved. How many times had you seen him exactly like this, performing some mundane task in your shared space? And yet now, it was as if you were seeing him through a completely different lens, one that stripped away the comfortable familiarity of your history together and left only this visceral, primal awareness in its place.

Your mother's voice suddenly echoed in your memory, her raised eyebrow and knowing smile when you'd announced your plan to share an apartment with Hajime. "Just the two of you?" she'd asked, a teasing lilt to her voice that had made you roll your eyes at the time. "You know, sweetheart, people change when you live with them. You might see sides of Hajime you've never noticed before."

You'd dismissed her concern with the confident ignorance of someone who believed they knew everything there was to know about their oldest friend. "Mom, it's Hajime. We've been joined at the hip since we were in diapers. There's nothing about him I don't already know."

How spectacularly, catastrophically wrong you had been. Because the Hajime you'd known all your life didn't make your pulse quicken with a single touch. He didn't make you hyperaware of your own body, of the thin fabric of your shirt against suddenly sensitive skin, of the exposure of your bare legs where they dangled from the countertop. He didn't make you wonder, with a kind of reckless curiosity that bordered on desperation, what those hands would feel like on other parts of your body, what that voice would sound like murmuring against your ear, what that strength would be like if it was focused entirely on you in an entirely different context.

Hajime finished gathering the larger pieces of glass and stood, moving to the trash can to dispose of them. "Don't get down yet," he instructed, grabbing the broom from the corner. "I need to sweep to make sure I got all the small pieces."

You nodded mutely, not trusting your voice. There was something almost unbearably intimate about sitting on the counter watching him clean up the mess, something domestic and quotidian that now seemed charged with new significance. This was your life together—broken glasses and curry for dinner and rain pattering against the windows—and yet suddenly it felt like the setting for something much more complex, much more dangerous than mere friendship or sharing an apartment.

He swept methodically, his movements economical and thorough, occasionally glancing up at you with that same concerned furrow between his brows. "You sure you're okay? You've been quiet."

"Just tired," you lied, forcing a smile that felt brittle on your face. "Long day."

He studied you for a moment longer, eyes narrowing slightly as if he could see through the flimsy excuse, but ultimately he let it go. That was Hajime too—knowing when to push and when to give you space, respecting your boundaries even when he suspected you weren't being entirely truthful. The thought sent another wave of heat through you, the realization that his consideration, his attentiveness, had always been there but now carried new weight, new implications.

"Done," he announced finally, setting the broom aside. He moved back to stand in front of you, positioned between your dangling legs, and for one wild, heart-stopping moment you thought—hoped? feared?—he might put his hands on your waist again, might lift you down as easily as he'd lifted you up. Instead, he stepped back slightly, giving you space to slide off the counter on your own.

"Thanks," you murmured, suddenly shy in a way you'd never been with him before. Your feet touched the floor, and you were abruptly aware of the height difference between you, of how you had to tilt your head back slightly to meet his eyes, of how easily he could—

Could what? Your mind raced ahead, filling in blanks with possibilities that had never occurred to you before this moment. Could back you against the counter. Could tilt your chin up with those strong fingers. Could bend down and—

"Food's getting cold," Hajime said, breaking the spell. He turned away to grab the pot of curry, seemingly oblivious to the chaotic spiral of your thoughts, to the seismic shift that had just occurred in your perception of him, of your relationship, of everything.

You moved to the table on unsteady legs, sinking into your chair with the distinct feeling that you were no longer the same person who had walked through the door twenty minutes ago. That version of you had seen Hajime as a constant, a known quantity, a childhood friend turned roommate with no complex layers to navigate. This new version saw him as... something else entirely. Something that made your skin too tight, your breath too shallow, your thoughts too scattered to form coherent patterns.

As he served the curry, his forearm brushed against your shoulder, and you flinched at the contact, a small involuntary movement that didn't escape his notice.

"Seriously, what's wrong with you tonight?" he asked, genuine concern mixing with exasperation in his voice. "You're acting weird."

You looked up at him—at the familiar features you'd known all your life, at the strong jaw and direct gaze and perpetual slight furrow between his brows—and felt as if you were seeing a stranger superimposed over your oldest friend. How could you explain that the problem wasn't him but your own sudden, visceral recognition of him as a man, as someone who could make your heart race with just the casual display of strength, who could command a room—command you—with nothing more than the tone of his voice?

"Nothing's wrong," you lied again, knowing he wouldn't believe you but unable to offer anything closer to the truth. "Just... thinking about something."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for elaboration, but when none came, he simply shook his head and sat down across from you. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But eat something before you pass out."

You picked up your spoon obediently, going through the motions of eating while your mind continued its treacherous exploration of this new territory. Every movement Hajime made now seemed laden with significance—the flex of his jaw as he chewed, the way his fingers curled around his water glass, how his throat worked when he swallowed. Had he always taken up so much space at the table, his presence so solid and undeniable? Had his eyes always held that intensity when they rested on you, as if he could see beneath your skin to the turmoil beneath?

"Is it not good?" he asked, nodding toward your barely-touched food.

"No, it's delicious," you assured him quickly, forcing yourself to take another bite to prove it. "I'm just... distracted."

"By what?" he pressed, setting down his spoon and giving you his full attention. It was overwhelming, being the sole focus of that gaze, being pinned in place by nothing more than his interest, his concern.

"Work stuff," you said vaguely, knowing it was a weak excuse but unable to formulate anything more convincing when your brain was so thoroughly occupied with cataloging the exact shade of his eyes in the warm kitchen light, the precise curve of his mouth as it turned down slightly in skepticism.

He didn't believe you—that much was clear from his expression—but instead of calling you on the obvious lie, he simply reached across the table and pressed the back of his hand to your forehead, checking for fever with the casual intimacy of someone who had done so countless times before. His skin was cool against yours, his touch gentle despite the roughness of his calluses, and you fought the urge to lean into the contact like a cat seeking affection.

"You don't feel warm," he murmured, brow furrowed in concentration. "But you look flushed."

Because you're touching me, you wanted to say. Because I can feel your pulse in your wrist where it rests against my cheek. Because I suddenly can't remember how to breathe normally when you're this close. Instead, you pulled back slightly, breaking the contact before you could do something mortifying like turn your face into his palm.

"I'm fine, Hajime. Really. Just tired and wet and..." You trailed off, gesturing vaguely at your still-damp clothes.

Understanding dawned on his face. "You never took that shower. Go. Now. Before you actually do get sick." He stood, gathering your mostly-full plate. "I'll keep this warm for you."

The note of command was back in his voice, that tone that brooked no argument and expected immediate compliance. And just like that, the heat returned, spreading through your body like wildfire, making it difficult to stand without revealing the sudden weakness in your knees.

"Yeah, okay," you managed, pushing back from the table. "Thanks."

As you turned to go, his hand caught your wrist, the contact sending a jolt of electricity up your arm. You froze, heart hammering against your ribs, afraid to look back at him lest your face betray the chaos of your thoughts.

"Hey," he said, his voice softer now, tinged with genuine concern. "You'd tell me if something was really wrong, right?"

The question hung in the air between you, loaded with years of trust and friendship, with the certainty that had always existed between you—that no matter what, you could tell each other anything. Except this. How could you possibly tell him that everything had changed in the span of a few minutes, that you suddenly saw him not as Hajime-your-friend but as Hajime-the-man, that your body responded to his proximity in ways that were entirely new and terrifying and exhilarating?

"Of course," you lied, the words tasting bitter on your tongue. "Always."

He released your wrist, apparently satisfied, and you fled to the bathroom, closing the door behind you with perhaps more force than necessary. You leaned against it, eyes closed, breath coming in shallow gasps as if you'd run a marathon instead of simply walking down a hallway.

The face that greeted you in the mirror was both familiar and strange—your features the same as they had always been, but your eyes wider, darker, your cheeks flushed with color that had nothing to do with fever or cold. You looked like someone on the edge of something monumental, someone teetering between before and after, between safety and risk.

As you stripped off your damp clothes and stepped under the hot spray of the shower, you couldn't escape the realization that had ambushed you in the kitchen. Hajime was no longer just your childhood friend, your roommate, your constant. He was a man who made your pulse race and your skin tingle, whose casual display of strength had awakened something primal and hungry within you, whose voice could command your obedience with a single word.

And nothing—not the scalding water beating down on your shoulders, not the steam filling the small bathroom, not the rational part of your brain screaming warnings about ruining friendships and crossing lines that couldn't be uncrossed—nothing could wash away the sudden, visceral certainty that you wanted him. Not as a friend, not as a roommate, but as a man wants a woman, with all the messy, complicated, thrilling implications that entailed.

The question that remained, as you pressed your forehead against the cool tile of the shower wall and tried to regain your equilibrium, was what the hell you were supposed to do about it now.

The days following what you'd come to think of as the Kitchen Incident unfolded like a fever dream, your perception of Hajime permanently, irrevocably altered. It was as if someone had adjusted the focus on a camera you'd been looking through your entire life—suddenly everything was sharper, more defined, details you'd never noticed before now impossible to ignore.

There was the morning after, when you'd emerged from your bedroom to find him doing push-ups in the living room, body moving with controlled power, the muscles in his back shifting beneath his thin t-shirt with each precise movement. You'd frozen in the hallway, coffee mug clutched in white-knuckled fingers as you counted along silently—forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine—until he finally rolled to his feet in one fluid motion. A strange flutter rippled through your stomach at the sight, but you pushed it down immediately. This was Hajime, for god's sake. The same Hajime who'd eaten dirt on a dare when you were eight, who'd thrown up in your mom's hydrangea bushes after your first attempt at making cookies resulted in severe food poisoning. There was absolutely no reason for your heart to suddenly kick against your ribs just because he could do a lot of push-ups.

"Morning," he'd grunted, using the bottom of his shirt to wipe sweat from his face, momentarily exposing a stretch of tanned abdomen. You forced your eyes away, confused by the urge to keep staring. "You sleep okay?"

You'd mumbled something noncommittal, retreating to the kitchen before your brain could continue its bizarre malfunction. Probably just tired. Or hungry. Or both.

Then there was the incident with the jar three days later—a stubborn pickle jar with a lid that refused to budge despite your increasingly frustrated efforts. You'd been about to resort to running it under hot water when Hajime wandered in, drawn by your muttered curses. Without a word, he'd taken it from your hands, his fingers brushing against yours in a contact that sent an unexpected jolt through your system. He'd twisted the lid off with one easy motion, not even the slightest strain showing on his face as the vacuum seal gave way with a soft pop.

"Thanks," you'd managed, trying not to stare at his hands. Had they always been that large? That capable-looking? You'd seen those hands nearly every day for the past twenty years, and yet suddenly they seemed like they belonged to a stranger. A man, not the boy you'd grown up with. The thought made you strangely light-headed.

"You okay?" he'd asked, interrupting your confused spiral.

"Fine," you'd said quickly, snatching the jar back and turning away. Just a weird mood. That's all it was. You'd get over it.

But you didn't get over it. If anything, this strange new awareness of Hajime—of his physical presence, his strength, the sheer masculine energy he exuded without seeming to realize it—only intensified as the days passed. You found yourself noticing things you'd never paid attention to before: the way his throat worked when he swallowed, the rough calluses on his palms when his hand accidentally brushed yours, the way his t-shirts stretched across his shoulders, evidence of years of rigorous athletic training.

The breaking point came a week after the Kitchen Incident, when you'd returned home from a study session to find Hajime in the bathroom, crouched down in front of the sink, wrench in hand as he worked on a leaky faucet. He hadn't heard you come in, too focused on the task at hand, giving you an uninterrupted view of him from the doorway. He wore a simple white tank top that had seen better days, thin with washing and clinging to the muscles of his back where sweat had made it transparent. His jeans rode low on his hips as he leaned forward, exposing a strip of tanned skin and the waistband of his black boxer briefs. His arm flexed as he turned the wrench, the muscles shifting beneath his skin with controlled power that made your mouth suddenly dry.

You'd stood there, frozen in the hallway, watching as he worked, completely unaware of your presence or the effect he was having on you. Water dripped from the pipe onto his forearm, trailing down to his wrist in a meandering path that your eyes followed with inexplicable intensity. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his tank top, and you had the sudden, intrusive urge to trace its path with your tongue, to taste the salt of his skin, to—

The thought had jolted you out of your trance, shocking in its suddenness and clarity. What the fuck was wrong with you? This was Hajime. Your best friend. The boy who'd pushed you on the swings and shared his lunch when you forgot yours and sat with you in the nurse's office when you had your first period at school and were too embarrassed to call your mom. You didn't think about licking his skin or touching him or—God—anything else your suddenly deranged brain was suggesting.

You'd backed away silently, retreating to your room before he could notice you, closing the door and leaning against it as you tried to understand what was happening to you. It was just stress, you'd decided. The pressure of university, of being away from home for the first time, of adjusting to this new life in Tokyo. That had to be it. There was no other explanation for why you'd suddenly started noticing your childhood friend in ways that made your skin feel too tight and your heart beat too fast.

Denial, it turned out, was a surprisingly effective coping mechanism—at least for a while. You managed to convince yourself that your heightened awareness of Hajime was just a phase, a temporary blip that would resolve itself if you just ignored it hard enough. You avoided being alone with him when possible, kept physical contact to a minimum, and desperately tried not to notice things like the way his hair fell across his forehead when he leaned over his textbooks or how his voice dropped to a lower register when he was tired.

But then came the heatwave—a brutally hot Saturday in early November, one of those freakish late-autumn days where summer seemed to have returned with a vengeance, the temperature soaring into the high eighties despite the changing leaves. You'd spent the morning at the library, studying for upcoming exams in the blessed air conditioning, but eventually hunger had driven you home despite the heat that hit you like a physical wall when you stepped outside.

The apartment was quiet when you entered, the only sound the distant hum of traffic from the street below and the soft whirring of the standing fan in the corner of the living room. You called out a greeting that went unanswered as you kicked off your shoes, dropping your bag by the door with a heavy thud.

"Hajime?" The apartment wasn't large—if he was home, he should have heard you. Perhaps he'd gone out, though his running shoes remained in their usual haphazard position by the door.

Movement caught your eye through the glass door leading to the small balcony—a flash of bare skin in the sunlight. You moved closer, curiosity drawing you forward, and then stopped dead, your breath catching in your throat at the sight that greeted you.

Hajime lay stretched out on a towel on the balcony floor, wearing nothing but a pair of black athletic shorts that rode high on his powerful thighs. His chest was bare, absolutely drenched in sweat that made his skin gleam in the harsh afternoon sun, the defined muscles of his abdomen rising and falling with each slow breath. The dusting of dark hair across his chest was visible now, damp with sweat and trailing down to his navel before thickening into a more defined path that disappeared beneath the waistband of his shorts. His small brown nipples were hard, either from the heat or the light breeze that occasionally stirred the heavy air, the contrast against his tanned skin making your mouth water in a way that shocked even you. A smaller towel was draped across his face, presumably to block the sunlight, leaving him unaware of your presence as you stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide and heart hammering against your ribs.

He was magnificent—raw masculinity on display, unfiltered and unself-conscious in a way that made your knees weak and your core throb with sudden, undeniable want. Those shorts left absolutely nothing to the imagination, plastered to his body by sweat and revealing the substantial outline of what could only be his cock, thick and heavy even in its relaxed state. You couldn't tear your eyes away from it, from the clear shape visible through the thin, sweat-soaked fabric, your brain immediately supplying vivid imagery of what it might look like freed from those shorts, how it would feel in your hand, your mouth, between your thighs.

'Fuck,' your inner voice whispered, no longer interested in denial or pretense. 'Look at that bulge. He's fucking huge. I knew it, I fucking knew he'd be hung like that. I bet he could split me in half with that thing and I'd thank him for it.'

You should move. You should turn around, go back inside, pretend you'd never seen this—Hajime splayed out like an offering, all that strength rendered momentarily vulnerable in unconscious repose. But your feet remained rooted to the spot, your eyes greedily devouring details you'd never allow yourself to linger on if he were awake: the sharp cut of his hipbones above the waistband of his shorts, the way his throat worked as he swallowed unconsciously, the trail of hair that you suddenly, desperately wanted to follow with your tongue, from his chest all the way down to where it disappeared beneath his shorts, to take his cock in your mouth and—

'Jesus Christ, I need therapy,' your brain supplied, even as your body throbbed with want so intense it was almost painful. 'Or I need to get laid. By him. Right now. On this balcony. I don't even care if the neighbors see. They should see. Everyone should see what a fucking god he is.'

The towel shifted, and your heart stopped as Hajime's hand moved to push it up slightly, revealing the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth. You were caught, deer in headlights, unable to move or speak or do anything but stare with undisguised hunger at the feast laid out before you.

"That you?" His voice was rough, whether from sleep or the heat impossible to tell. "Thought you'd be gone longer."

"Just got back," you managed, impressed at how normal your voice sounded when your internal monologue had devolved into a stream of 'fuck me fuck me please just fuck me until I can't walk straight, bend me over right here, I don't care, I'll take that monster cock any way you want to give it to me.'

He pushed the towel off entirely now, squinting up at you against the brightness of the sun. Sweat gleamed on his forehead, in the hollow of his throat, along the ridges of his abdomen. A drop rolled slowly down his chest, following the line of dark hair downward, and you tracked its progress with an intensity that bordered on obsession.

'Fuck, I don't care how sweaty he is, I'd lick every drop off him like it's the best thing I've ever tasted,' you thought wildly. 'I'd clean him better than any shower could, get on my knees and worship every inch of that body with my tongue until he couldn't take it anymore and had to fuck my throat just to shut me up.'

"You okay?" Hajime propped himself up on his elbows, brow furrowing in concern, the movement causing his abdominal muscles to flex and contract in a way that made your mouth water. "You look weird again. Is it the heat?"

Oh, it was heat alright—the heat of your cunt practically dripping at the sight of him, the heat of imagining those big hands spreading your thighs wide, those fingers pushing inside you, that mouth on your neck, your breasts, between your legs, that cock stretching you open so good you'd see stars.

"I'm fine," you said, the lie coming easily after weeks of practice. "Just a little warm."

He grunted, unconvinced as always by your increasingly transparent falsehoods. "Grab some water. You look like you're about to pass out."

'I'm about to cream my fucking pants is what I'm about to do,' you thought hysterically. 'One good look at that dick print and I'm ready to let you ruin my life, destroy my pussy, leave me a whimpering mess begging for more. I'd let you cum on my face and use it as a fucking face mask, I swear to god.'

"Good idea," you said, impressed by your own self-control when your entire body felt like it was on fire, your underwear embarrassingly damp just from looking at him. "You want some too?"

He nodded, still watching you with that slight furrow between his brows, the one that appeared whenever he was trying to solve a particularly challenging problem. You were the problem now, your strange behavior these past weeks, the way you flinched when he touched you, the flush that seemed permanently etched on your cheeks whenever he was near.

You retreated to the kitchen on unsteady legs, pressing your thighs together as you walked in a vain attempt to alleviate the ache between them. This couldn't continue. You couldn't keep living like this, constantly on edge, constantly fighting this new awareness of him, this hunger that threatened to consume you from the inside out. Something had to give.

But as you filled two glasses with cold water, hands trembling slightly, you knew with absolute certainty that it wouldn't be today. Today you would bring him water, you would make normal conversation, you would retreat to your room and shove your face into your pillow to muffle the sounds as you fucked yourself with your fingers, imagining it was his cock inside you, his voice in your ear telling you how tight you were, how good you felt, how he was going to fill you up with his cum until it dripped down your thighs.

And tomorrow? Tomorrow you would do it all again, trapped in this exquisite torture of wanting what had once been the most familiar, comfortable relationship in your life—now transformed into something dangerous, thrilling, and entirely out of your control.

Days passed in a haze of unrelenting sexual frustration following the balcony incident. You'd managed to hand Hajime his water that day, maintaining a facade of normalcy while your internal monologue screamed obscenities that would make a sailor blush. The pattern had continued—you going about your daily life pretending everything was fine while your mind supplied increasingly explicit scenarios involving your childhood friend, his massive cock, and various surfaces of your shared apartment.

Tonight was no different, the clock on your laptop reading 7:48 PM as you attempted to focus on an assignment due the following week. The apartment had been quiet for hours, Hajime still at practice, giving you a brief reprieve from the constant torment of his presence. You'd almost managed to trick yourself into believing you could be productive, that you could think about something other than what Hajime would look like naked and sweaty above you, when the sound of the front door opening shattered your concentration.

His footsteps in the hallway were immediately different—slower, heavier, with a slight drag that wasn't typical of his usual confident stride. You looked up from your laptop as he appeared in the doorway to your room, his face drawn in a grimace that set alarm bells ringing in your head.

"What's wrong?" you asked, immediately closing your laptop and giving him your full attention. Despite the constant state of arousal he unknowingly kept you in, he was still your best friend, and the obvious discomfort on his face pushed all lustful thoughts temporarily aside.

"Pulled something during practice," he muttered, leaning against the doorframe with one hand pressed to his upper thigh. Even in pain, he managed to look devastatingly attractive, his hair damp with sweat and his practice clothes clinging to his body in a way that highlighted every defined muscle. "Coach says it's just a strain, but it hurts like a bitch."

Your eyes were drawn to where his hand pressed against his thigh, just below where his athletic shorts ended. The muscle there was tensed visibly, and without thinking, you blurted out, "I could massage it for you."

The words hung in the air between you, and for a split second, panic seized your chest. What the fuck were you thinking? Offering to put your hands on his thigh when you could barely look at him without imagining riding his face? But before you could retract the offer, Hajime's expression shifted from surprise to relief.

"Would you? Coach showed us how to do it, but it's awkward to reach properly myself." He straightened from the doorframe, wincing slightly as he put weight on the affected leg. "It's my hamstring, upper inner thigh. Guess I pushed too hard during sprints."

Your mouth went dry at his casual description. Upper inner thigh. Which meant your hands would be inches from his—No. Focus. He was in pain, and he needed your help. This was what friends did for each other. It didn't matter that your heart was suddenly racing, that heat was pooling between your legs at the mere thought of touching him so intimately. You were an adult. You could handle this.

"Sure," you managed, aiming for nonchalance and probably missing by a mile. "Come sit down." You patted the edge of your bed after you put your laptop away, the only suitable surface in the room besides your desk chair, which was too small and awkward for what you'd need to do.

Hajime crossed to the bed with that same slight limp, the discomfort evident in the tightness around his eyes. He sat heavily on the edge of your mattress, the familiar weight of him causing the bed to dip, sending a cascade of memories through your mind—how many times had he sat exactly like this over the years? How many times had you shared this same casual intimacy without a second thought? And now, your heart was pounding like you were about to jump out of an airplane rather than help your injured friend.

"I, uh, need to..." He gestured vaguely at his shorts, a slight flush creeping up his neck. "To get proper access to the muscle."

"Right," you said, your voice embarrassingly high. "Of course."

With a grunt of discomfort, Hajime stood long enough to push his athletic shorts down his legs, revealing black boxer briefs that clung to his muscular thighs and, more distressingly, did absolutely nothing to hide the substantial bulge at his groin. You forced your eyes away from it, focusing instead on the clearly tensed muscle of his upper thigh, where a slight redness indicated the strained area.

He sat back down, now wearing nothing but his t-shirt and those obscenely tight boxer briefs, his legs slightly spread to accommodate the injury. "Coach said firm pressure in circular motions, working from the knee up. But not too hard right on the strain itself."

You nodded, not trusting your voice, and moved to kneel on the floor between his spread legs. This was fine. This was normal. This was just you helping your injured friend, not you positioning yourself at eye-level with his crotch, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin, to smell the clean sweat and masculine scent that was uniquely Hajime.

"Tell me if I press too hard," you said, placing your hands tentatively on his knee, feeling the coarse hair that covered his legs against your palms. His skin was hot to the touch, almost feverish, though whether from the injury or just his naturally high body temperature, you couldn't tell.

You began the massage gently, working your thumbs in small circles just above his knee, feeling the dense muscle beneath your fingers. Hajime was solid everywhere, the result of years of rigorous training, not an ounce of softness to be found. You worked methodically upward, applying gradually increasing pressure as you moved toward the strained area, focusing intently on the task at hand rather than on how close your hands were getting to the edge of his boxer briefs, to the place where his thigh met his—

"That's good," Hajime murmured, his voice lower than usual, slightly rough at the edges. "A little higher."

You swallowed hard and obeyed, moving your hands further up his thigh, your thumbs now pressing into the sensitive inner portion where the strain was located. This close, you could see where the hem of his boxer briefs had ridden up slightly, exposing more of his tanned skin. You could also see, no matter how hard you tried not to look, the unmistakable outline of his cock through the thin fabric, seemingly thicker than it had been a few minutes ago.

'He's getting hard from this,' your brain helpfully pointed out, sending a jolt of heat straight between your legs. 'Your hands on his thigh are making his cock hard. Imagine what would happen if you moved your hands just a little higher, slipped them under the fabric, wrapped your fingers around—'

"Harder," Hajime said, breaking into your increasingly inappropriate thoughts. "The muscle's really tight."

You bit your lip and increased the pressure, working your thumbs more firmly into the tense muscle. A small sound escaped him—something between a grunt and a groan—and the noise shot straight to your core, your cunt clenching around nothing as your brain immediately categorized it as one of the hottest things you'd ever heard.

"That hurts?" you asked, easing the pressure slightly, trying desperately to maintain some semblance of normal friendly concern.

"No," he said quickly, "It's good. It hurts in a good way. Don't stop."

Don't stop. The words echoed in your head, your imagination immediately supplying a very different context for them—Hajime above you, inside you, his voice rough as he told you not to stop, to keep going, to take all of him—

You realized your thumbs had stilled and resumed the massage, working the tense muscle with more confidence now. Hajime leaned back slightly, bracing himself on his hands, his head dropping back as another low groan escaped him. The position stretched his t-shirt across his chest, highlighting the defined muscles beneath, and caused his abs to contract visibly. The sight made your mouth water, your body responding with a rush of heat and dampness between your thighs.

"That's... really helping," he murmured, eyes closed now, completely unaware of the effect he was having on you. "A little higher, right where it connects... yeah, there."

Your hands were now mere centimeters from the edge of his boxer briefs, your thumbs pressing into the incredibly sensitive juncture where thigh met groin. You could feel the heat of him, the strength in the muscle even as it remained tense under your ministrations. And you could see, no matter how much you tried to be professional about this, that his cock was definitely hardening, the outline becoming more pronounced against the black fabric.

Suddenly, Hajime shifted, dropping from his seated position to lie flat on your bed, one arm coming up to drape across his eyes as he stretched his legs out more fully. "Sorry," he mumbled, "sitting was making it worse. Is this okay?"

It was more than okay. It was the stuff of your recent fantasies—Hajime sprawled across your bed, his powerful body on display, his legs spread to accommodate you between them. The new position pulled his boxer briefs even tighter across his groin, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. He was definitely hard now, his cock creating an impressive tent in the fabric, the head of it visible as a distinct ridge beneath the tight material.

"This is fine," you managed, your voice strangled as you adjusted your position, still kneeling but now between his spread legs as he lay on your bed. You resumed the massage, working your thumbs in firm circles against the strained muscle, trying to ignore the fact that his cock was now at eye level, so close you could lean forward and mouth at it through his boxer briefs if you lost all sense of self-preservation.

Hajime made another one of those devastatingly hot sounds—a deep groan that rumbled up from his chest—as your thumbs hit a particularly tight spot. "Fuck, that's it," he murmured, the curse word falling from his lips with an ease that sent another rush of heat to your core. "Right there."

Your cunt throbbed in response to his words, to his tone, to the sight of him laid out before you like some pagan offering to the god of your sexual frustration. Without conscious thought, you shifted position, raising yourself up higher on your knees to get better leverage, one leg moving to straddle his uninjured thigh as you continued to work the knotted muscle.

In this new position, your core was pressed directly against the solid muscle of his thigh, the pressure providing a tantalizing hint of relief for the ache that had built between your legs. You hadn't intended it—or at least, you could tell yourself you hadn't—but now that you were here, the temptation was overwhelming. You continued the massage, your thumbs working deep into the muscle, but your focus had shifted almost entirely to the delicious pressure against your cunt, separated from his skin by only the thin fabric of your shorts and underwear.

Hajime's groans grew more frequent, deeper, as you worked the strained muscle with increasing confidence. His arm remained thrown across his eyes, blocking his vision, leaving him unaware of how you'd positioned yourself, of how your hips had begun to move in tiny, almost imperceptible circles against his thigh. The motion was so slight that you could almost pretend it wasn't happening, that you weren't essentially grinding yourself against your best friend while he lay vulnerable and in pain beneath you.

But it was happening. With each press of your thumbs into his muscle, your hips rocked slightly, dragging your clit against the firm ridge of his thigh through your clothes. The dual sensation—his skin hot beneath your hands, his thigh solid against your core—was intoxicating, addictive. You found yourself pressing harder with your thumbs just to justify the increased pressure of your cunt against his leg, the massage becoming secondary to the slow, torturous pleasure building between your thighs.

You weren't even truly massaging anymore, your hands simply holding his thigh as your hips worked in increasingly blatant movements against him. Your breathing had grown heavier, your focus narrowed to the point of contact between your body and his, the rest of the world falling away as pleasure built in slow, inexorable waves. You were wet—embarrassingly so—your arousal likely soaking through your underwear and shorts to dampen his skin, but you couldn't bring yourself to care, couldn't bring yourself to stop this illicit pleasure even knowing how wrong it was, how much it risked.

"What are you doing?"

Hajime's voice cut through the haze of arousal like a bucket of ice water. His arm was no longer covering his eyes; instead, he had raised his head, propped up on his elbows, watching you with an expression you couldn't immediately decipher—shock, certainly, but something else too, something darker and more intense that made your stomach flip.

Reality crashed back with brutal force. You were straddling his thigh, grinding yourself against him like a bitch in heat while he lay injured on your bed. Your hands had stopped any pretense of massage, instead gripping his thigh as you essentially used him to get yourself off. Mortification flooded through you, hot and overwhelming, as you realized how completely you'd lost control.

"I—" you started, but what could you possibly say? How could you explain this away? Your mind raced for an explanation, an excuse, anything to salvage the situation, but came up empty. There was no innocent interpretation of what you'd been doing, no way to pretend this was normal behavior between friends.

Before you could formulate a response, before you could even move off his leg, a familiar electronic chime sounded from your laptop on the desk—the distinctive ring of an incoming video call. Tooru's custom ringtone, the one he'd set up himself the last time he'd visited, claiming it was "more dramatic" than the default.

Relief surged through you at the interruption, giving you an excuse to escape this excruciating moment. You practically leapt from Hajime's leg, scrambling toward your desk with undignified haste. "That's Tooru," you said unnecessarily, as if Hajime hadn't heard the same ringtone countless times before. "I should—I should get that."

"Don't," Hajime said, his voice carrying a note of command that sent an involuntary shiver down your spine despite the circumstances.

But you were already reaching for your laptop, flipping it open with trembling fingers. "He'll just keep calling if I don't answer," you said, the excuse sounding weak even to your own ears. "You know how he is."

Before Hajime could protest further, you accepted the call, Tooru's face filling the screen with his usual dramatic timing. His hair was perfectly styled despite the late hour in Argentina, his smile wide and practiced until he got a good look at your face.

"Well, don't you look flustered," he said immediately, his keen eyes missing nothing even through the screen. "What have you been up to, hmm? Your face is all red."

"Nothing," you said too quickly. "Just, um, exercising."

Tooru's eyebrows shot up, his expression shifting to one of delighted suspicion. "Exercising? In your bedroom? At eight o'clock at night?" His eyes narrowed, peering past you as if trying to see more of the room. "Where's Iwa-chan? Is he home?"

"I'm here," Hajime's voice came from behind you, still rough at the edges but controlled now, giving nothing away. He hadn't moved from your bed, still sprawled there in his underwear with a visible erection, but thankfully out of the camera's field of vision. "Just got back from practice."

Tooru's eyes lit up at the sound of Hajime's voice, his expression turning sly. "Oh? And why aren't you on camera, Iwa-chan? Hiding something?"

"None of your business, Shittykawa," Hajime growled, the familiar insult falling from his lips with practiced ease despite the charged atmosphere in the room.

Tooru gasped dramatically, hand flying to his chest in feigned offense. "So mean, Iwa-chan! And here I am, calling from across the world just to check on my two favorite people." His gaze shifted back to you, shrewd and calculating despite his playful tone. "You're being suspiciously quiet. Both of you are. What were you doing before I called?"

"Nothing," you repeated, knowing you sounded guilty but unable to come up with anything more convincing. "Hajime pulled a muscle at practice. I was just helping him with it."

"Helping him with it," Tooru repeated slowly, his lips curving into a knowing smirk. "I see. And how exactly were you 'helping' him with his... muscle?"

Before you could stammer out another unconvincing denial, you heard the bed shift behind you, and then Hajime was there, his presence solid and unmistakable at your back, still out of the camera's view but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body.

"Hang up," he said quietly, his voice pitched low enough that Tooru couldn't hear, his breath warm against your ear, raising goosebumps along your neck. "Now."

You ignored him, focusing on Tooru instead, desperation making you cling to this lifeline of normalcy, this barrier between you and the conversation you were definitely not ready to have with Hajime. "How's Argentina?" you asked brightly, your voice unnaturally high. "Tell us everything. How's your team? Your apartment? Have you tried that restaurant you mentioned last time?"

Tooru opened his mouth to answer, still looking suspicious but seemingly willing to play along, when you felt Hajime's hand on your thigh. Not your knee, not your calf, but high on your thigh, his fingers splayed wide, nearly spanning the width of it with his palm. The touch was deliberate, possessive in a way that made your breath catch, your words dying in your throat as his hand began to move slowly upward, pushing beneath the loose fabric of your shorts.

"Hang up," Hajime repeated, his voice firmer now, an unmistakable command that made your stomach flip and your core throb with renewed arousal. "Or I'll hang up for you."

His fingers continued their upward path, now brushing against the edge of your underwear, so close to where you were embarrassingly wet, where you had been grinding yourself against his thigh just minutes ago. The touch was a clear escalation, a deliberate crossing of the line you'd already blurred with your actions.

"Are you even listening to me?" Tooru's voice cut through your distraction, his head tilted in confusion at your obvious lack of attention. "What's going on over there? You're acting weird. Both of you."

Hajime's fingers slipped beneath the elastic of your underwear without warning, sliding easily through the slick evidence of your arousal to find your clit with unerring accuracy. The contact was electric, pulling a small gasp from your lips before you could stop it, your body jerking slightly in response.

"Are you okay?" Tooru asked, leaning closer to the screen, his brow furrowed in concern that quickly shifted to suspicion as his eyes narrowed. "Wait a minute. Where exactly is Iwa-chan right now? And why did you make that noise?"

Hajime's fingers didn't still at Tooru's questions, instead beginning to move in slow, deliberate circles against your clit, spreading your wetness, building a pleasure so intense it took everything in you not to moan out loud. His other hand came to rest on your shoulder, keeping you in place as he continued his torturous ministrations, his body a solid wall of heat at your back.

"I—" you started, but whatever excuse you might have formed died as Hajime slid a thick finger inside you, the intrusion so sudden and so perfect that your eyes threatened to roll back in your head. "Tooru, I should—I need to go."

Understanding dawned on Tooru's face, his eyes widening comically before a shit-eating grin spread across his features. "Oh my god," he said, voice rising with glee. "Oh my GOD. He's touching you right now, isn't he? That's why you're making those faces. That's why he's not on camera." He clapped his hands together in delight. "I knew it! I KNEW IT! You two are fucking!"

"We're not—" you began automatically, but Hajime chose that moment to curl his finger inside you, hitting a spot that made your words dissolve into a choked sound that could not possibly be mistaken for anything other than pleasure.

"Goodbye, Oikawa," Hajime said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your body where he pressed against your back. Without waiting for a response, he reached around you with his free hand—the one not currently buried between your legs—and ended the call with a decisive click, closing the laptop with perhaps more force than necessary.

The sudden silence in the room was deafening, broken only by the sound of your rapid breathing and the obscene wetness of Hajime's finger still moving inside you, joined now by a second that stretched you further, making you bite your lip to hold back a moan.

"Now," he said, his mouth right against your ear, voice deeper than you'd ever heard it, "we're going to talk about what you were doing on my leg. About how fucking wet you are right now. About how long you've been wanting this." His fingers thrust deeper, emphasizing his words, making your back arch involuntarily. "But first, I'm going to make you come. Because I don't think you can focus on anything else right now, can you?"

The question hung in the air between you, not truly requiring an answer when your body was already providing one—in the way your inner walls clenched around his fingers, in the flood of wetness coating his knuckles, in the small, helpless sounds escaping your throat with each precise movement of his hand. You couldn't focus on anything beyond the overwhelming sensations he was creating, your world narrowed to the points of contact between his body and yours—his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot against your neck, his fingers buried deep inside your cunt, stretching you in a way that your own never could.

"Hajime," you gasped, the syllables of his name fractured by the pleasure building inside you. His thumb found your clit, rubbing slow circles with devastating accuracy, as if he'd been studying your body for years rather than touching you intimately for the first time. Perhaps he had been studying you, noticing things about your responses that even you weren't aware of, the same way you'd recently begun cataloging every detail of his physicality with obsessive precision.

"That's it," he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your body where he pressed against you. "Let me hear you. Let me feel how much you want this." His fingers curled inside you, finding that spot that made fireworks explode behind your eyelids, pressure building at the base of your spine with each deliberate stroke. "You've been driving me fucking crazy for weeks, you know that? Walking around in those little shorts, watching me when you think I'm not looking, those sounds you make in your room at night when you think I can't hear you through the wall."

Your eyes flew open at that, mortification flooding through you at the realization that he'd heard you—heard the muffled moans you couldn't quite contain as you touched yourself in the darkness, imagining it was his hands, his mouth, his cock bringing you to release. But the embarrassment was quickly overwhelmed by a fresh wave of arousal at the knowledge that he'd been listening, that he'd known all along what you were doing, who you were thinking about.

"You think I couldn't tell it was my name you were saying?" he continued, his fingers never slowing their relentless rhythm inside you. "Think I couldn't hear you begging for my cock through that thin fucking wall?" His teeth grazed your earlobe, the slight pain a counterpoint to the pleasure building between your thighs. "I've been hard for you for so long I thought I was going to lose my mind. And then today, feeling you grinding on my leg like you couldn't help yourself, seeing how desperate you were for me—fuck, I almost came in my underwear like a fucking teenager."

The image his words conjured—Hajime so turned on by your mindless rutting against his thigh that he nearly lost control—sent a fresh surge of wetness around his fingers, your clit throbbing almost painfully against his thumb as tension coiled tighter in your core.

"Hajime, I'm—" you couldn't finish the sentence, your words dissolving into a high, keening sound as he added a third finger, the stretch bordering on too much yet somehow exactly what you needed. Your thighs began to tremble, heat spreading through your lower body in waves that threatened to consume you entirely.

"I know," he growled, his voice strained with the effort of his own restraint. "I can feel it. You're getting tighter, wetter. Your little cunt is squeezing my fingers so hard, I can only imagine how good it's going to feel around my cock." His thumb pressed more firmly against your clit, circling with precise, relentless pressure. "Come for me. Now."

Your body obeyed as if it had been waiting for his command, release crashing over you with an intensity that bordered on violence. Your back arched sharply, a cry tearing from your throat as your inner walls clamped down on his fingers in rhythmic pulses, wetness gushing around his hand in a way that would have embarrassed you if you had any capacity for shame left. The orgasm seemed to go on forever, wave after wave of pleasure radiating outward from your core, leaving you limp and trembling in its wake.

As the intensity began to ebb, Hajime carefully withdrew his fingers, the loss making you whimper despite your oversensitivity. He turned you slowly to face him, and for the first time since he'd touched you, you could see his expression clearly—pupils blown wide with desire, jaw clenched tight with the effort of restraint, a flush high on his cheekbones that spoke of how affected he was by what had just happened.

He brought his hand to his mouth—the hand that had just been inside you—and deliberately, maintaining eye contact the entire time, sucked his fingers clean, tasting your arousal with a low groan that sent aftershocks of pleasure rippling through your still-sensitive body.

"Fuck, you taste good," he said, the crudeness of the words at odds with the almost reverent tone in which he delivered them. "Been wondering about that for longer than I should admit."

You stared at him, brain struggling to process the radical shift in your relationship, the fact that Hajime—your Hajime, your childhood friend, your roommate—had just made you come harder than you ever had in your life and was now telling you he'd been fantasizing about how you tasted. It seemed impossible, like a particularly vivid dream your sex-starved brain had conjured after weeks of unfulfilled longing.

"How long?" you finally managed, your voice hoarse, as if you'd been screaming though you were fairly certain you hadn't been that loud.

"How long what?" he asked, his hand coming to rest on your thigh, the touch possessive in a way that made your stomach flip pleasantly. "How long have I wanted to taste you? Touch you? Fuck you until you can't remember your own name?" His thumb traced small circles on your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you were still sensitive and wet from your orgasm. "All of the above, probably longer than you've been wanting the same things from me."

"I thought—" you began, then stopped, unsure how to articulate the weeks of confused desire, the certainty that your sudden awareness of him as a sexual being was one-sided, that acting on it would destroy your friendship.

"You thought what?" he prompted, his other hand coming up to cup your cheek, surprisingly gentle given the intensity of what had just transpired between you. "That I didn't notice how you looked at me? That I didn't want you just as badly? That this—" he gestured between you, encompassing the electric tension that had been building for weeks, "—was all in your head?"

You nodded mutely, leaning into his touch like a cat seeking affection, your body still humming with residual pleasure and the building anticipation of what might come next.

"I've wanted you for years," he said quietly, the confession falling between you like a stone in still water, ripples of implication spreading outward. "Not just like this—though fuck knows I've thought about it enough to fill several lifetimes—but all of you. Every part. The good, the bad, the fucking infuriating parts that make me want to shake you sometimes." His thumb brushed across your lower lip, his eyes tracking the movement with hungry intensity. "I just never thought you saw me that way. Not until recently, when something changed. When you started looking at me like you wanted to devour me whole."

"The kitchen," you murmured, understanding dawning. "That night with the broken glass. That's when it started for me. When I saw you differently."

A small smile played at the corners of his mouth, not the full grin that transformed his face but something softer, more private. "I wondered what had happened. One day we were fine, normal, and the next you were jumping every time I touched you, staring at me when you thought I wouldn't notice, taking suspiciously long showers after I'd been working out in the living room."

Heat flooded your cheeks at how transparent you'd apparently been, how obvious your sudden desire had been to the very object of that desire. "You lifted me onto the counter like I weighed nothing," you explained, the memory still vivid, still capable of sending heat pooling between your legs despite the powerful orgasm you'd just experienced. "You just... took control. And suddenly all I could think about was your hands on me, your strength, how easily you could—" You broke off, embarrassment finally catching up with you.

"How easily I could what?" he pressed, his voice dropping lower, rougher, his hand on your thigh inching higher, sending sparks of renewed arousal through your oversensitive body. "Tell me. I want to hear exactly what you've been thinking about."

The command in his voice was impossible to resist, breaking down the last of your inhibitions. "How easily you could hold me down," you admitted, the words coming faster now, tumbling over each other in their rush to be spoken. "Pin me against the wall, the bed, the floor—anywhere. How strong you are, how big your hands are, how they'd feel on my skin, inside me, how your cock would feel stretching me open, filling me up until I couldn't take anymore—"

Your words cut off as Hajime surged forward, his mouth capturing yours in a kiss that was nothing like the tentative first kisses you'd imagined during your more romantic fantasies. This was raw, hungry, desperate—teeth clashing, his tongue immediately seeking entrance which you granted without hesitation, his hand moving from your cheek to tangle in your hair, holding you exactly where he wanted you as he devoured your mouth with single-minded intensity.

You responded with equal fervor, weeks of pent-up desire finally finding an outlet as your hands clutched at his shoulders, his chest, anywhere you could reach, greedy for the contact you'd been denying yourself. He tasted faintly of you—a reminder of what he'd done moments ago—mixed with something uniquely him, a flavor you immediately knew you'd never get enough of.

When he finally broke the kiss, you were both breathing hard, his forehead resting against yours, his hand still tangled in your hair, grip just tight enough to send little sparks of pleasure-pain across your scalp.

"I'm going to fuck you now," he said, the crude statement delivered with such matter-of-fact certainty that a fresh wave of arousal flooded between your thighs. "Unless you tell me to stop. Unless this isn't what you want."

"I want it," you assured him immediately, no hesitation, no doubt. "I want you. Please, Hajime."

The plea in your voice seemed to snap something in him, the last thread of his restraint giving way. He stood, pulling you up with him in one fluid motion, his hands moving to your waist as he lifted you bodily—just as he had that night in the kitchen, but with far different intentions now. Your legs wrapped around his hips instinctively, your core pressing against the hard length of his cock through the thin fabric of his boxer briefs and your shorts, the contact making you both groan.

He carried you to the bed with the same effortless strength that had started this whole chain of events, laying you down with surprising gentleness given the obvious urgency of his desire. He stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at you with an expression that made your breath catch—hunger, yes, but also something deeper, more complex, a tenderness that belied the crude words and actions that had preceded this moment.

"Take off your clothes," he said, the command softened by the slight tremor in his voice, the way his eyes roamed your body as if he couldn't quite believe this was happening. "I want to see all of you."

You complied without hesitation, sitting up to pull your t-shirt over your head, revealing the simple cotton bra beneath—nothing fancy or seductive, not something you'd worn with the expectation of anyone seeing it. But the way Hajime's eyes darkened at the sight, his throat working as he swallowed hard, made you feel as desirable as if you'd been wearing the most expensive lingerie.

Your shorts and underwear followed, already damp from your earlier activities, leaving you in just your bra. Before you could reach behind to unclasp it, Hajime was there, his weight dipping the mattress as he knelt beside you, his hands replacing yours.

"Let me," he murmured, deftly unhooking the clasp and sliding the straps down your arms, his calloused fingers leaving trails of fire on your skin wherever they touched. When the last piece of clothing was removed, he sat back slightly, eyes roaming your naked body with undisguised appreciation, taking in every curve, every imperfection you'd normally be self-conscious about but couldn't find it in yourself to worry over when he was looking at you like you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"Your turn," you said, finding your voice despite the vulnerability of being completely exposed while he remained partially clothed. "Fair's fair."

A small smirk played at the corners of his mouth as he pulled his t-shirt over his head in one smooth motion, revealing the torso you'd been obsessing over for weeks—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, defined pectoral muscles dusted with dark hair, abs that flexed unconsciously as he moved, the trail of hair leading down from his navel disappearing beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs. The sight was familiar from your recent observations yet somehow more overwhelming now, knowing you were allowed to look, to touch, to taste.

He stood to remove his boxer briefs, pushing them down his powerful thighs and stepping out of them with an athlete's grace. His cock sprang free, hard and thick and intimidating in its size—larger than you'd imagined even in your most optimistic fantasies, the head flushed dark and already leaking pre-cum, a bead of it glistening at the tip. Your mouth watered at the sight, your body clenching around emptiness in anticipation of being filled by him.

"See something you like?" he asked, the cockiness of the question belied by the slight uncertainty in his eyes, a reminder that for all his confidence, this was new territory for him too—this crossing of boundaries, this transformation of friendship into something else entirely.

"Everything," you admitted, no room for artifice or games between you after what you'd already shared. "I like everything I see."

The simple honesty seemed to touch something in him, his expression softening for a brief moment before hunger took over once more. He moved onto the bed fully now, nudging your legs apart to kneel between them, his hands running up your thighs in a touch that was both possessive and reverent.

"I've thought about this so many times," he murmured, his thumbs tracing the creases where your thighs met your hips, dangerously close to where you were wet and aching for him. "Having you spread out under me like this. Seeing all of you. Touching you wherever I want." His hands moved higher, skimming over your stomach, your ribs, finally cupping your breasts with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the intensity in his eyes. "You're even more beautiful than I imagined."

The compliment sent warmth flooding through you that had nothing to do with sexual arousal and everything to do with the man delivering it—Hajime, who had never been free with praise, who showed his affection through actions rather than words, now looking at you like you were something precious and telling you you were beautiful.

His thumbs brushed over your nipples, drawing them into tight peaks, the sensation shooting straight to your core. You arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips as he leaned down to replace one thumb with his mouth, hot and wet as he sucked the sensitive bud between his lips. His tongue circled your nipple with deliberate pressure, teeth grazing lightly in a way that walked the perfect line between pleasure and pain.

"Hajime," you gasped, hands coming up to tangle in his hair, holding him against your breast as he continued his ministrations, switching to the other side to ensure both received equal attention. "Please, I need—"

"What do you need?" he asked, raising his head to meet your gaze, his hair mussed where your fingers had clutched it, his lips slightly swollen from his attentions to your body. "Tell me. I want to hear you say it."

"I need you inside me," you said, beyond embarrassment, beyond anything but the desperate desire to feel him filling you, stretching you, completing the connection that had been building between you for weeks—perhaps years, if his earlier confession was to be believed. "Please, Hajime. I need your cock. Now."

A low growl rumbled from his chest at your words, his eyes darkening with renewed hunger. "Fuck, the mouth on you," he muttered, shifting his position to align himself with your entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your slick folds. "Been dreaming of hearing you say filthy things like that."

He rubbed himself against you, coating his length in your wetness, the friction against your sensitive clit making you writhe beneath him, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of him. When he finally began to push inside, the stretch was immediate and intense—he was big, bigger than anyone you'd been with before, his girth forcing your body to accommodate him inch by agonizing inch.

"Fuck," he hissed, his jaw clenched tight with the effort of restraint, sweat beading on his forehead as he fought the urge to thrust forward all at once. "You're so tight. So fucking perfect." He paused when only the head was inside, giving you time to adjust. "You okay? Not hurting you?"

The concern in his voice, the fact that he was checking on you even while clearly struggling with his own control, made something warm bloom in your chest. "I'm good," you assured him, hands running up his arms to his shoulders, feeling the tension in his muscles as he held himself above you. "Just... go slow. It's been a while."

He nodded, understanding without needing further explanation, and resumed his careful entry, pushing forward with exquisite slowness, retreating slightly before pressing deeper each time, working himself into you with a patience that must have cost him dearly given the tightness of his expression, the trembling in his arms as he braced himself above you.

When he was finally seated fully inside you, both of you were breathing hard, adjusting to the overwhelming sensation of being so intimately connected. He was deep, deeper than you'd thought possible, filling you so completely that you felt stretched to your limits, hovering on that exquisite edge between pleasure and discomfort.

"You feel—" he began, then broke off, apparently unable to find words adequate to describe the sensation. Instead, he leaned down to capture your mouth in a kiss that was surprisingly tender given the circumstances, his tongue tangling with yours as he remained motionless inside you, giving you time to adjust to his size.

The kiss deepened, grew hungrier as your body gradually relaxed around him, the initial discomfort fading into a growing need for movement, for friction. You shifted beneath him, tilting your hips in a silent plea that he immediately understood, breaking the kiss to meet your gaze as he slowly withdrew almost completely before pushing back in with a controlled thrust that hit places inside you that made your vision blur at the edges.

"More," you gasped, hands clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into the firm muscle there. "Hajime, please, more."

He complied, setting a pace that was measured at first—long, deep strokes that allowed you to feel every inch of him as he withdrew and pushed back in, his eyes never leaving your face, watching for any sign of discomfort. But as your body opened for him more fully, as your moans grew louder and more desperate, his control began to slip, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, more demanding.

The change in tempo drove you higher, pleasure building with each precise stroke of his cock inside you. He shifted slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly he was hitting that spot inside you that made stars explode behind your eyelids, your back arching off the bed as a particularly loud moan tore from your throat.

"There?" he asked, though the question was clearly rhetorical given your reaction. A smirk played at the corners of his mouth as he deliberately aimed for the same spot again, watching with obvious satisfaction as you writhed beneath him. "Gonna remember that. Gonna learn every inch of you, figure out exactly how to make you scream my name."

The promise in his words, the implication that this wasn't a one-time thing, that he planned to do this again—to learn your body, to perfect his knowledge of what brought you pleasure—sent a fresh wave of arousal through you, your inner walls clenching around him in a way that made him groan, his rhythm faltering momentarily.

"Fuck, do that again," he muttered, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining control. "Squeeze my cock like that again."

You did, deliberately tightening around him, watching with fascination as his eyes nearly rolled back in his head, a string of curses falling from his lips as his hips jerked forward with increased urgency. The sight of him losing control because of you, because of how your body felt around his, was intoxicating, a power you hadn't expected to have in this situation.

His hand slid between your bodies, finding your clit with unerring accuracy, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves in time with his thrusts. The dual stimulation was overwhelming, pushing you rapidly toward a second orgasm that promised to be even more intense than the first.

"Hajime, I'm close," you warned, your voice breaking on his name as tension coiled tighter in your core, heat spreading through your lower body in waves that threatened to consume you entirely.

"Me too," he admitted, his movements growing more erratic, less controlled, his breathing harsh in the quiet of the room. "Want to feel you come on my cock. Want to feel you squeeze me when you let go."

His words, combined with the relentless pressure of his fingers on your clit and the perfect angle of his thrusts, pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed over you with stunning intensity, your back arching sharply off the bed, a cry tearing from your throat that might have been his name or just an incoherent sound of pleasure. Your inner walls clamped down on his cock in rhythmic pulses that seemed to go on forever, wave after wave of ecstasy radiating outward from your core.

The sensation of you coming around him was apparently too much for Hajime's already strained control. With a low, guttural groan, he thrust deep one final time, his cock pulsing inside you as he came, hot spurts of his release filling you in a way that should have concerned you but in the moment felt only right—primal and perfect and exactly what you both needed.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight a comforting pressure rather than a burden, his face buried in the crook of your neck as you both struggled to regain your breath. Your hands moved lazily up and down his sweat-slicked back, feeling the strong muscles there gradually relax as the intensity of your shared release ebbed, leaving behind a pleasant lassitude that made your limbs feel heavy, your mind blissfully quiet for the first time in weeks.

After what could have been minutes or hours—time seemed to have lost all meaning in the aftermath of what you'd just shared—Hajime raised his head, looking down at you with an expression that made your breath catch. The hunger was still there, banked but not extinguished, but it was tempered now by something softer, something that looked dangerously like tenderness, like affection deeper than mere friendship or physical desire.

"That was..." he began, then shook his head, apparently unable to find words adequate to describe what had just transpired between you.

"Yeah," you agreed, understanding perfectly despite his lack of articulation. "It really was."

A small smile played at the corners of his mouth, not the full grin that transformed his face but something more private, more intimate. He shifted his weight, carefully withdrawing from your body, both of you wincing slightly at the loss of connection. He rolled to the side but kept one arm draped across your waist, as if unwilling to lose contact entirely, his hand splayed possessively across your hip.

"We should probably talk about this," you said after a moment, gesturing vaguely between your naked bodies, the implications of what you'd done, of the lines you'd crossed.

"Probably," he agreed, though he didn't sound particularly eager to engage in a deep discussion of feelings and boundaries in the afterglow of what had been, frankly, the most intense sexual experience of your life. "But not right now."

"No?" you asked, turning your head to meet his gaze, searching for any sign of regret, of uncertainty, finding only a satiated contentment that mirrored your own.

"No," he said firmly, his hand tightening slightly on your hip, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush against each other, skin to skin from shoulder to ankle. "Right now, I'm going to hold you for a while. And then, when I've recovered enough, I'm going to fuck you again. Maybe against the wall this time, since you mentioned that particular fantasy earlier."

Heat flooded your cheeks at the reminder of your earlier confession, at the matter-of-fact way he stated his intentions, as if there was no question that this would happen, that you would continue whatever this was between you.

"And after that?" you couldn't help asking, needing some reassurance that this wasn't just a one-night release of weeks of pent-up sexual tension, that there was something more substantial underpinning the physical connection you'd just shared.

Hajime's expression softened, his free hand coming up to brush a strand of hair from your face with surprising gentleness. "After that, we'll figure it out. Together. The way we always have." He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead that was achingly tender compared to the raw hunger of earlier. "I meant what I said before. I've wanted you—all of you, not just this—for years. That's not going to change just because we finally acted on it."

The simple honesty of his words, the quiet certainty in his voice, settled something in your chest that had been fluttering with anxiety despite the physical satisfaction still humming through your body. This was Hajime, after all—solid, reliable Hajime who had been your constant since childhood, who showed his feelings through actions more than words, whose promise of "together" carried more weight than flowery declarations ever could.

"Okay," you said, snuggling closer to his warmth, your head finding that perfect spot on his shoulder that seemed made for you to rest against. "Together."

A shiver runs down your spine.

Truth be told, you hadn’t expected to get this far.

According to what the stories and legends claimed, a mere mortal like you would have been sniffed out—would have been sought after, would have your flesh torn to shreds the very second you stepped inside the Sukuna Estate. If not by the monster that inhabited it, then the Estate itself.

Some whispered that it was inhabited by cursed spirits - amongst something far, far worse - that both guarded and imprisoned. Whilst others whispered that the house itself was a cursed spirit in the form of this sprawling aristocratic estate—as vast as a palace. Even more whispered that whomever entered the house gained a taste for blood, and even most claimed that a house’s auspiciousness reflected that of its master’s. 

For who else would inhabit such a place but Ryomen Sukuna, the King of Curses himself?

If the public whispered about the estate, they simply yelled about the sorcerer that inhabited it. Blood-curdling screams. 

There was no avoiding the rumors that swirled around the special-grade; those who were unfortunate enough to cross his path painted a picture of a beast more than eight feet tall, with glowing blood-red eyes and horns that tore open the skies. Storms he could silence with a single wave of his hand. His powers were what made legends—never before had there been seen a sorcerer as strong as he, and it was likely that there never shall be again. Though that was not for a lack of trying, or talent, or assassinations. 

Despite remaining living, he was depicted in temples and murals of hell. Four arms. Four eyes. Two mouths and countless tattoos. So imbued in his sorcery that it metamorphosed his physical body itself - Ryomen Sukuna was said to be something more than human, but something less than a person. 

Look at him wrong and you might find yourself without sight. Without life. 

Thus, not many dared to lay their eyes upon him—but they didn’t have to. He left a pathway of destruction and blood-soaked footprints wherever he went. 

A kill count higher than several populations.

Wherever he went, it loomed the dark shadow of a hand across the land. Currently that hand was grasped tight around the city of Heian-kyō: the home of Ryomen Sukuna, it sat at the very center of the capital. Dubbed aptly by the citizens to be The Estate of the Dead. For no human that wandered inside, will ever wander out.

And yet, that’s exactly the chance you’d taken today.

You’d had enough.

You’d waltzed right up to those grand doors this evening, dwarfing everything and anything around it, and knocked. Dark mahogany panels. Gilded handles. Unlike most noble homes, the Sukuna Estate didn’t need to have guards stationed outside it—for who was mad enough to bother the King of Curses?

You, it seems.

And so the busy road froze around you; the residents paused mid-gossip, the merchants stopped haggling their prices, the carts and wheels creaked to a halt—the world itself held its breath as the doors to the estate had opened.

And a short, slender person stepped outside.

They were dressed in a dark monk’s robe draped over a white kimono, equally white hair dazzling - almost ethereally odd - underneath the sunlight. They closed the door behind themself, and looked at you intensely. “State your purpose.”

You struggled to remember why you were here in the first place, “I-It is my greatest honor to-”

“Hasten.”

“I only wished to-”

“Hasten-”

“A position.”

You weren’t sure who was more bewildered at the words that blurted out of you—you or the citizens around you. There were soft gasps that echoed into the air, peering even closer at the strange interaction. However, the attendant merely looked at you uncertainly, and you hurried to explain yourself. “I come seeking employment, my lord of the house.”

“I am but a mere servant.” They replied, raising one hand. “And we seek help no longer.”

As they attempted to turn back and go inside, you’re rushing. “Please-”

Brows furrowed, “I said we seek help no-”

“But I swear that I shall be the most loyal servant to the master…” Bowed slightly, a slight rush of relief goes through you as you notice they’ve turned back. Just barely, but it’s something. “-after yourself, of course.”

They huffed in slight amusement.

And your hands shook. Gripped onto the long length of your sleeves, you steadied them before you continued - just as you’d practiced. “I swear upon my soul that no assignment shall be too great, no concern too small. Please—please, I have scoured every street and alley for weeks now in search of employment, and you have been the only one kind enough to open your doors…Any job is enough for me- any. Just spare me the chance.” Hands twisted together into a plea, “I beg of you.”

They looked slightly taken aback, and you stepped closer to seize your chance.

“My body is the master’s, and I shall gladly undertake any task.” You gazed straight into their doe-like, brown eyes—“Any task.”

Their lips barely moved as they repeated, “Any?”

“Any.”

There was a ringing silence following your answer, and you knew that everyone in the once-bustling vicinity must have been staring at you. But that didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered but the way the white-haired attendant let their brows raise, they appraised you from head to toe.

Head to toe.

Head to toe.

It honestly seemed like forever before they finally sighed, “At ease.”

And you shot upwards from your painstaking bow with an awed breath. 

Untold, the doors to the Sukuna Estate opened. They turned around, not meeting your eyes - nor that of anyone around you two - and gestured for you to follow them inside. Stepping inside as though they didn’t care whether you proceeded or not, the strange attendant uttered. “I expect you to use your body well to serve the master.” Just barely tilted to the side to take another look at you, “You have one night to please him.”

The sound of wrought iron echoed through the ancient city like thunder.

And you touched your sleeve once more - your best silk, but more specifically…the dagger you’d hidden beneath it. 

You had one night to take down the King of Curses.

In no time, you’d been led around the massive estate by Uraume - they’d uttered their name to you between the meeting chamber and the second library - and your heart still thumps away at your throat as they now creeeeeeak—! open the quarters for the concubines. Blood bubbling in your veins. Blade cold against your skin.

There was a buzzing sort of excitement that seemed to extend from the weapon and onto you—only growing stronger as you’re pacing inside. 

It wasn’t the small, structured sort of barrack that you might’ve expected - you weren’t sure the validity, but you’d already heard stories about how concubines were cramped together in certain royal palaces. Bunks on top of bunks. Bodies that remained undernourished and untouched.

However, what Uraume takes you through is a gilded hallway—nothing out-of-place from the rest of the palace. On one side was a line of separate rooms, at the end of the hallway the paneled doors opened to a garden. It had unlit lanterns on the high ceilings and intricate artifacts that seemingly sprouted from the gleaming wooden floors; the spotless corridor branched and divulged into several other rooms and hallways, weighed with nameplates, and you were shocked to realize that each concubine seemed to have their room - no matter how small their rank; there was a lingering of perfume in the air. 

Fit for royals.

Your eyes bounce off of the walls, and Uraume watches your reaction closely. “I assume it is to your liking?”

“Yes-” You wouldn’t want to give off the wrong impression - especially not when a mere offense could mean death—“F-forgive me, it’s far more than to my liking, it’s…” Taking another awed look around, “-magnificent. I suppose I didn’t expect it to be so…”

“Beautiful?” Uraume seems to read your mind.

And you can only turn to them and nod. 

They sagely nod, something knowing in their tone. “The master has an inclination to all that is beautiful and surprising.” Looking at you closely, “Particularly surprising.”

Uraume’s expression gives nothing away, and you attempt to do the same - the dagger glints coldly against your hand. A single movement and it could cut you. A single movement and it could be in your hands.

You don’t know how long they maintain eerie eye contact with you before the sound of footsteps makes you tear your eyes away—and where you’re perhaps expecting to see the monster, the inhuman, the master of this house himself—it’s another woman. Human, perhaps.

Donned in expensive silk that robes her figure, she tip-toes towards the two of you with a sheepish smile upon her painted face. 

She bows, and you’re bowing back.

“Forgive my intrusion.” She says as she straightens once more, “It is seldom we meet a new girl. Perhaps this is forward, but am I right in presuming you are one of the new concubines?”

“O-oh, you are correct.” You’re surprised by her warm and welcoming demeanour - weren’t fights and jealousy typical of close concubine quarters? Wasn’t she supposed to scheme and plot against you just as you were doing against her- you suppose your master?

But she takes your hand and beams at you, “Then it is most wonderful to make your acquaintance. Ask me anything you would like.”

Your lips part - unsure what to say - but the white-haired attendant at your side beats you to it by announcing. “Dinner shall be served shortly.” They turn, about to make their exit before eyeing you closely. “Human.”

And you wondered whether they meant to call you human…or they meant that dinner was human. 

Once those delicate doors slide shut, and Uraume’s footsteps disappear, you’re just then realizing that you were still holding onto the other woman’s hand. Mustering up some semblance of a smile, you’re asking her—“Could you tell me about…Ryomen Sukuna?”

.

.

.

“There’s a descendant of the esteemed Kamo clan here, as well—” One of the women chuckle, taking a deep drink of her sake - one of those expensive types that came in an intricate wooden box. She smacks her lips in satisfaction, “-but you just missed her.”

Your heart batters against your chest- you still had the dagger hidden up your sleeve. Setting down your water, you hope that none of the other concubines here can hear the waver in your voice- “I see. Is she perhaps attending the…?”

“Huh?” The woman looks at blearily for a few seconds. “Who? The master?”

You nod silently.

She exchanges a look with one of the other women-

Before bursting into rambunctious laughter. 

And you’re sitting there confused as they clap one another on the shoulders, as they rattle the food-laden table—as they wipe mirthful tears from their eyes. Repeating the last sentence to one another and breaking out into peels of laughter once more. Surely, you hadn’t said anything too humorous…perhaps this was some unspoken rule of etiquette you’d missed?

It hadn’t been too long since you’d been somewhat- absorbed into the group of numerous concubines upon concubines that were housed in the Sukuna Estate. Many more than you’d initially predicted - the hallway you’d entered had been just one of many residential wings. 

Right now, about half of them sat at a long table of which you couldn’t clearly see its end - both because of length and the sheer volume of food towering upon it. All sorts of soups and noodles. All sorts of breads and wines. All sorts of meats and charred vegetables. Desserts and colorfully-packaged sweets from around the world that you’d once believed that only the emperor himself would have been able to taste.

It would have been possible to dislike every food you’d ever known, and still find something here that made you wish to stay…if just for the food.

You could hear the other half of the women chattering and laughing away in another dining room connected to this one. 

All in all, your proponent - a woman you’d learned was connected with the Fujiwara family - had told you everything about Sukuna as she introduced you to the other concubines. They took you in readily, to your surprise, and cooed and surrounded and showed you around. Speaking to you about how the estate was designed personally by Sukuna himself. How Uraume was his (human) cook. How he was a ruthless ruler, and the hallways were more often bloodied than not—but he didn’t lay a hand on them.

When they’d told you this, you’d assumed it was regarding his more…aggressive reputation on the battlefield. You didn’t think it meant-

“Our Kamo girl has travelled to Edo.” The woman from earlier - Abe, you remember her name being - continues as the others settle down. She whispers scandalously, “To visit her lover.”

You breathe in sharply, “The master permits you to take lovers?”

“It isn’t that he permits…” Fujiwara smiles warmly at you - not too far down the table. The other concubines nod as she continues, “It’s that he doesn’t pry—he has no time for human frivolities. After all, the master hasn’t called for one of the girls in…well, since we can remember. He’s a picky man. But nowadays, girls enter and leave the estate as they please, as they wish for employment. Most choose to join the house staff in time, for we aren’t bound, and the master seems to have no need for concubines these days.”

Surprise overtakes you, your hand grips tightly on your sleeve. But your objective…

Abe speaks up now, “Which is why it’d been quite the surprise to know he’d allowed in yet another.” She leans in with a conspiratorial smile, “Perhaps you’re the type to really get his loins going-”

“Abe—!” A few other women swat at her.

“I jest- I jest—” She winks at you, “In part. Would you prefer to lay with the master?”

Something twists at the bottom of your stomach, “I-if it must come to it, I wouldn’t mi-”

You’re cut off as they exclaim in scandal all around you. 

Fujiwara shakes her head with a smile, then she looks at you. “No matter what it is, you shall be housed and fed here. You shall never go without despite the master’s…”

“Impotence?”

“…”

“I jest-”

“What’s more—” She pulls back her sleeves and gestures for a bowl of sake, “Given the state of affairs, I highly doubt that you would ever have to-”

Just then, there’s a tap at the sliding doors.

An announcement of Uraume’s title—before they’re cracking the entrance open just a fraction. That stark white hair of theirs flashes from the gap in the door, illuminated by both the dim yellow lighting and the curiosity leaking out of the dining room; eyes scanning the vast chamber before finally landing on you.

An utterance of your name.

All eyes snap to you.

“The master wishes for you to join him tonight.”

One by one, you could feel the jaws of the other women drop—as well as your own. Right alongside something at the pit of your stomach that you couldn’t quite describe. 

As the silence stretches and expands to the other speechless dining chamber- Fujiwara lets out a pointed cough—and it’s all you need to jolt right back to your senses. Scrambling to stand up, you barely have the time to smooth down your kimono before following Uraume out of the room - throwing a cautionary glance over your shoulder. 

Fujiwara smiles, slightly shocked. 

Abe winks. 

The sliding doors rattle closed, and the whirlwind of gossip that follows accompanies you even to the bridge. 

Head ducked. Hands in sleeves. Uraume remains painfully silent as you’re following them down winding hallways and past chambers vast enough to be estates themselves; and though you’d been given a tour of the place beforehand, you can’t help but let your mind get just a little frazzled at the thought of what was to come after.

Of what was to come once they finally stopped.

And they do—after what feels like nights upon nights, the white-haired attendant stops before two sliding doors - nothing but sliding doors. Though you’d assumed that the King himself might have decked his personal chambers with several of his best guards, you’re realizing with a prickle of anticipation that he didn’t need them.

But that only made your job easier.

Invisible hands seem to pull the doors - panes decorated in artwork depicting archery - apart, and you’re entering a room that would have been too lavish for an emperor. 

A massive rectangular-shaped room of which strange interconnected woodwork make up the flooring; windows towering from floor-to-ceiling, half-hidden by thick curtains of red velvet. They clung themselves onto a ceiling that was gilded, calligraphy rounding the high perimeter, and a chandelier-like composition of lanterns fashioned down from it. Reds and greens and blacks and golds, the most eye-catching painting colors of furniture within. 

In the far end of the royal chamber was the futon. 

And you would describe its incredible size and its golden threading, even the red, red blanket that covered it- you would…but your eyes were far more interested in who was occupying it.

Thighs spread. Two elbows resting on his knees.

All four eyes locked on you since the moment you step inside-

“Uraume.” His lips barely seem to move, though that hoarse baritone is hard to deny. It wasn’t as inhuman as you might have expected—it sounded human and yet, there was surely something malevolent in the way he made your thighs squeeze together with just a single word. “You are dismissed.”

You’re feeling Uraume bow deeply next to you, and in the blink of an eye they’re gone-

In another blink of an eye, Ryomen Sukuna has one large hand stuck out - index quirked at you, he beckons you to him once. Only once. 

And you gulp as you walk to him.

This was your first time really seeing the King of Curses- fuck. He was wearing nothing but baggy white pants and a strange, carnal inkling about him. Engulfing you in it the second you’re locking eyes with him. The legends were right…somewhat.

Because Sukuna truly was larger than any mere mortal could ever be: with shoulders sculptured and broad enough that they’d put your best warriors to shame, with corded muscle around biceps the size of your head, with his pecs creating a bumpy road for his tattoos. He was about nine feet tall—perhaps even taller than the stories said. Far taller. Far stronger. Far more monstrous. 

Abs consistently patterned his front, disrupted only by the presence of his second mouth - it slashes aaaaall the way across his navel, large n’ licking his cursed lips with a grin.

And those tattoos- oh, those tattoos.

They were the tattoos of a criminal - two looping around each of his four arms like shackles, and then a circle on all four deltoids.

You bite the inside of your cheek—you knew your mission. But fuck- you won’t deny that a part of you wanted him so bad. 

Sukuna’s pink hair catches the lantern light as he leans back on two hands, meaty thighs manspreading before you. And in-between you swear you could see the thick, throbbing outlines of two-

“On your knees.” The King commands. Crimson eyes narrowing, “Should you so wish.”

And your knees are buckling almost instinctually- he raises a rose-pink brow as he watches your hands reach for your sleeve…before ultimately going against your orders to settle down before the foot of the bed where he was seated. 

Embarrassment curdles in your chest as you’re crawlin’ yourself closer to him, and the sorcerer himself hums in approval once you’re leaning your cheek against his right thigh. Rubbing. 

The muscles underneath twitch—and Sukuna’s swollen tips let out a spurt of precum that puddles right in front of your lips. That translucent dampness stretches across the fabric and wets your lips with its salty taste- you whine.

Right before he grasps the back of your sweaty scalp with one massive hand- and shoves your head down onto one clothed cock. Your mouth gaped wide and plopping! right on top of his mushroomy tip—an open kiss against where his sensitive slit was flared outwards. 

He’s pulsating against your lips.

And you’re moaning with your eyes squeezed shut at the feeling of his entire tip being nearly fuckin’ big enough to envelop your entire maw-

“Do you understand now?” Sukuna’s tone rumbles from above - low and level in a way that speaks of such power. He doesn’t reveal anything more, however. “Do you understand that your puny human body cannot handle me?”

You’re looking up at him with furrowed brows, “I-I understand…”

“Do you understand that I may ruin you?”

“I understand.”

“Do you understand that you cannot take m-”

“I want you-” And almost as bewildering as the fact that you’ve interrupted him, is that Ryomen Sukuna doesn’t crush you with his cursed energy on the spot for interrupting him. “-my lord.”

But that seems to be his tipping point. For his large stomach mouth quirks upwards in what almost seems like a smile—

And Sukuna gruffs out, “Then kiss your King.”

And so you’re gripping onto the soft edge of the mattress and leaning yourself up into his kiss- not the one his face was so ready for—but one where you’re leaning in and pressing a chaste peck onto his second mouth.

Onto those monstrously large lips hungrily gaping at his stomach.

Onto that fucking hungry - starved - maw so deprived of any touch that he’s immediately slurpin’ the edge of his textured tongue outwards. Attempting to enter his incredible size between your own lips, Sukuna’s only managing to fit about an inch of his cursed tastebuds—swipin’ the insides of your heated cavern and making you gasp, before he’s searing his grip into your scalp and tugging you off-

“Naughty naughty.” He trundles. And yet there’s a glimmer of something different in his eyes that told you Ryomen Sukuna was almost…excited. He’s patting one side of him on the futon, “Come up here with me, insolent thing.”

In no time, you’re hauled onto the bed and straddling the infamous King. 

Thighs struggling to squeeze around his toned core, cunt drooling your slick through your panties. As you’re inadvertently rubbing uuuup and down his ridged abs- it creates a snail trail of glistening sap that trickles all the way down to his pinkish-brown happy trail. 

Sukuna titters once he leans his head down and takes in the mess - n’ then he’s gripping one side of your waist with a single hand. 

Squeezing lightly, it doesn’t take even a mere fraction of his power to glide the exterior of your pussy down those unruly tufts of hair—dooooooown in a carnal scratch as he positions you directly on top of his second mouth.

His second mouth.

Now gaped wide open and fucking ravenous.

Immediately cracking apart from each other with a parched gasp- something deep and rumbling from his underbelly. It reminds you of a creature that’s been starved for eons—something that makes shivers run up your spine right from the in-betweens of your drippin’ wet cunt. Right as you’re feeling his oversized tongue press aside your ruined underwear and start to eeeeeease inside-

“Fuh-fuuuuck—” Dazed peripherals rolling to the back of your head - without even realizing it, you’re planting your feet onto the futon and bucking- whether more into Sukuna’s cursed mouth or away from it…you’re unsure.

But he’s making the decision for you. He’s cupping either side of your hips with two clawed hands, letting those pointed tips dig into your clammy flesh, “Easy-” Letting out a rumbling chuckle. “Easy there, woman.”

Gasping, you’re lurching- 

“Easy.”

And it’s all he needs to steady you.

It’s all he needs to tighten his hold onto your squirmin’ body, until it’s like he’s attached onto you with adhesive. It doesn’t take much of him to move you ‘round and spread open those folds even further like a pretty flower—that massive tongue of his wastes no time before swirling around that first ring of muscle. Cutely clenching around him- fuck, he can’t wait.

Before slurping his muscle back and shoving it straight between your pussylips. 

Through the popping pressure in your ear, “Because how’re you gonna take my cocks otherwise?”

And you really didn’t forget who you were dealing with, did you?

You really didn’t think that Ryomen Sukuna - the King of Curses - was going to go easy on you…did you?

Because without even waiting for your struggling walls to get used to the size, his enlarged tongue reels all the way backwards with a deafening slurp! Right until the curvaceous tip was ticklin’ at your entrance, before Sukuna’s thrusting all the way back in. Again.

Your toes curl. Your eyes dart instantly to the back of your head. 

Sukuna himself cracks a smirk- before he’s then doing it again.

And again.

“Don’t think yer running from it.” A third hand ends up plastered atop your clammy scalp- dangerously gripping your head and puuuuuushing you down onto him. 

As far as your tight hole would let him. Your thighs quiver, “B-but-” Bucking.

“Now now, brat—” Pushing you back down. “Ya get what you’re given.”

Again and again.

It doesn’t matter how many times you’re twisting on top of him because of the ruthless swabbin’ of his tastebuds inside. Honed at the very tip and zig-zagging around in a way that makes you viscerally shake on top of him—he’s slipping his velvety muscle inside and stirring it a few times to get a reeeeally good feel for your walls. For how much you’d stretch. “Because you shall fit- oh…” He seethes between clenched canines, nose scrunched at the very top. “You must- fit it. You must not run away.”

Another tough battering ram of his thick tongue - it’s almost adorable how your poor body is being jerked to and fro. He murmurs, “For who can possibly escape Ryomen Sukuna? Heh.”

His tongue seems to wind n’ stretch even deeper inside you after his own self-praise - you always have heard rumors about the King of Curses being particularly egotistical…though righteously. 

And again and again—“P-please.” Sukuna’s second tongue fills you up in all sorts of ways you’ve never felt before - not with the texture or the size or the complete and utter need…Those ridged tastebuds of his were pushin’ into eeeeevery single nook and cranny he could reach - which was all of them. At least, as far back as your dewy walls were allowing him to go, “Such a size should be-”

“Necessary.” He’s cutting you off cleanly. “Besides…”

Sukuna raises a pink brow, leaning backwards on the mattress to watch his massive tongue indulge in and out. In and out. In and out.

Your puffy folds being pushed apart at a rapid pace, your gloss seeping everywhere as he tunnels inside—he’s letting out a low whistle of approval as his second mouth creates such a mess between your legs. Monstrous tongue jerking outwards and slapping the front of your cunt teasingly- it makes a fresh wave of your juices slather down your thighs.

And he smiles - already knowing that he’s going to clean this up later.

The King’s chest rumbles with satisfaction, “Heh- you should be aware, little human…that m’not even halfway inside yet.”

There were two things in that sentence that drove you utterly wild: the fact that he mentioned he was barely inside, and the fact that he said…yet. As though to prove the point he’d just sparked inside your muddled brain, Sukuna arches his hips off the bed and ruts-

Pistoning his tongue a mere inch deeper.

Even though - to you - it feels like he’d just struck his tongue against your very throat—“Wh-what you claiming…” Your thighs quake as he continues fucking you between them, “How much longer may you possibly have to go?”

“Oh…an inch, two, four….seven.” Sukuna tilts his head airily, “Tch- such tedious tasks are meant for humans. How about you count instead?”

You balk, “Pardon, master?”

“Count, little human.” And without a single warning, his fourth hand snakes underneath your flapping kimono- between those sopping pussylips and squeezing at your poor clit. “Your master orders you to count.”

And the only thing you can possibly do is let your eyes shutter at the pleasure, lips trembling as Sukuna’s second tongue finds its mazin’ way across your walls. As you’re struggling to get a single word out, however, at least the ruthless sorcerer slooooows his pace down to something more languid- making sure you feel every bump and vein.

Every quirk.

Every inch.

Until finally you’re throwing your head behind and vocalizing—after only a few sloppy strikes. “T-two…”

“Heh…interesting.” One of those gnarled hands clasped onto your sides reaches upwards n’ grabs onto your pretty face, smushin’ those cheeks together as he stares deeply into your eyes. Sukuna takes in your dazed peripherals, your spit-glossed lips - the way you looked completely and utterly gone on his tongue, and yet…still managed to answer his question.

Mere mortals never did manage to surprise him anymore. You, however…

Before even he knows what he’s doing, Ryomen Sukuna leans inwards and spits between your gaped maw. Rushing to then kiss you with his own lips - eyes widened, mouth hungry. He looks bewildered himself, as his cursed mouth continues rubbin’ your pussy raw—“It seems we have a feisty little human on our hands.” Three out of four hands groping at your sides and making you ride him-

You’re trembling.

“And yet, who told you to cease your counting?”

Thwack!

“Three—” You cry out. Expectedly, Sukuna was mean—that fourth n’ final hand of his plasters his knobbly fingertips against your sensitive nub. Spanking you hard enough to see stars.

But Sukuna only grins, “Incorrect.”

Yet another spank. Yet another brush of his cursed tongue inwards- and you swear that you’re starting to hear his second mouth start to snicker to himself. Was that even possible? 

Were you even thinking? Were you even breathing?

It doesn’t take his keen eyes long to realize that he’s left you completely and utterly stupid on his tongue—just so luscious and lewd. Spreadin’ apart your puffy folds and funneling your insides with him, “Four- four—”

“Correct.” Just to tease you, those fingers of his leave another rude spank.

And Sukuna doesn’t bother letting you gather your bearings before he’s delving even deeper. 

“F-five…” You’re trembling out as you feel the massaging texture of his tastebuds enter, they’re pokin’ into spots you hadn’t even realized you had - filling out your tight channel and leaving his shape molded straight into your cunt. “And is that…ngh- six?”

“That was seven.” He rumbles out in a smug tone.

Your jaw drops as you register the massive number - seven inches of his cursed tongue fucking your pussy. And yet it still doesn’t seem as though he’s planning to stop anytime soon…

Back arched, you’re keeping your hands on top of Sukuna’s broad shoulders. Nails digging into his deltoids. And with all the strength that you could muster, you’re attempting to riiiiiide your hips back down onto his—grinding in figure-eight motions.

Sukuna was already manhandling you down onto him - now it might just be your turn to control the cadence. To control how much of him went inside you.

“J-just fuck me already—” You’re pleading. Your jaw drops with a parched whimper, hips veering down harder and harder- “Ngh- that was eight. Nine. Just fuck me- all of me.”

Sukuna’s eyes widen in slight surprise- before he’s quickly catching himself and tightening the two hands at your waist. “Now now…easy there. Go too fast for a little human, and yer going to hurt yourself.”

“But I need it.” Lip jutting out in the cutest damn pout, “I need you inside me, Kuna.”

His breath catches, “Repeat what you just uttered.”

Back bending into the most delicious curve, pushing up against his sweaty pecs. You’re sobbing out as his stomach mouth gapes even wider n’ seemed to push in even more, more, moooore of his sultry inches—“N-nine and a half…? I need you inside-”

“Not that-” Smacking your clit once more. “-you insolent brat.” The tip of his tastebuds reach the very back of your pussy, and it’s a sensation you just can’t describe. “That…title. I command you to hah, repeat it.”

“Title?”

Thwack!

“Repeat it.”

And it’s taking everything and anything in you - in your utterly cockdrunken mind - to conjure up the faintest inkling about what Sukuna was talking about. To let your head throw back with a final primal cry—for the first time since he’d started fucking you with his stomach mouth, you’re finally feeling your ass cheeks seat down properly on top of his washboard abs. 

And then you’re finding yourself in his strong arms, your moans muffled into his actual mouth. “T-ten.” Gasping through the constant drool n’ sounds of pleasure clogging up your throat, “That’s ten, Kuna—”

And there it was.

Theeeeeere it was - in more ways than one.

Ryomen Sukuna’s getting to hear that sultry nickname fall from your mouth once more - for some inexplicable reason leaving the tips of his ears feeling warm - and he’s getting to see you complete his command.

Ten entire inches of his cursed second tongue- lickin’ away every trace of sap at your inner thighs, before he’s pushing it all the way inwards. Inwards and inwards. The maw slashed across his stomach grins as he’s hitting the very back of your pussy-

And before you know it, the King is tugging you into his arms.

He kisses your mouth sloppily while his second tongue continues fucking you between your legs. Harder by the minute.

Sukuna grunts as he opens his mouth wiiiiide n’ slips his tongue between your jaw- “Suck on my tongue.” He’s echoing out in a hollow tone.

And you can do nothing but squeeze your glossy lips together—eagerly suckling on his tongue. You’re unsure whether it was from your lavish dinner prior or whether it’s just how hazy your brain is, but you’re finding him to taste almost…sweet.

And your eyes roll to the back of your head as you do so-

“Heh-” Sukuna manages to pant out between kisses, open-mouthed and hot. “Now both pairs of pretty lips are sucking on my tongue.”

And your jaw…drops- only for him to use the opportunity to kiss you even deeper.

Making you ride his stomach mouth whilst he kisses you stupid - his tongue probing inwards, inwards, inwards in looooong slick thrusts. Scrapin’ every orifice inside but especially bending around to hit your g-spot. 

You’re sure your body jolts as you feel the sudden zaps of charged pleasure, setting your body positively alight. “I-I’m so close, master.” You pout, “I must- hah- cum.”

“Must, hm?” Sukuna mutters - almost to himself. “And am I to believe that my human deserves to cum? Am I to believe that she is ready to take both my cocks?”

Nodding fervently, “Y-yes—yes, please-”

“Am I to believe that she will have no trouble taking me down to the very womb?”

“Yes-”

Crimson eyes narrow, “I will not slow down, needy human. Am I to believe that-”

“Yes-” Just so gone on your impending high. So close. 

And to your surprise, the King merely chuckles as you’re interrupting him - had this been anyone else, then they would have found themselves being made an example of. But you…you’re finding yourself jerked almost aggressively upwards as he bucks his hips, more to run the ridges of his cursed tastebuds along the interior of your walls. Harder. Faster.

You hurtle straight into your high at an incredible pace-

“If you had let your King finish…” It’s the last thing you’re hearing before the pleasure overtakes you - Sukuna’s rumbling tone. “-then perhaps you would have known my question was whether I’m to believe you shall give me an heir in my name.”

His question was going to be whether you’d give him an heir.

His question was going to be whether you’d give him an heir.

But you’re unable to articulate anything more than a few whimpers n’ grunts - because the waves of your orgasm that overtake you are enough to leave you numb. Enough to leave you babbling. Enough to leave you shaking on top of Sukuna’s toned body as he shovels his fat tongue in and out.

In and out. In and out.

The way his overlarge tongue curved was just perfect for hittin’ every spot, and you’re feeling him time out your peaks perfectly—knowing juuust when the surges of your dopamine were at their highest. 

Just then, he’d slam! his flattened tastebuds onto the exact spot of your nerves. Fingers nothing but a dizzying blur between your legs as he rolls his thumb over your clit, “Gonna take my t-tongue-” Sukuna spits between honed canines, “Gonna take my cocks then- gonna take my seed.”

“Sh-shiiiiit—” You yowl, “It feels so good, Kuna-”

“That’s ‘master’ to you.” He scoffs, nose sliding down the column of your throat. Sukuna takes one more look at the way you’re swallowing him up - at the way you grind deeper to stuff his glistening muscle between your pussylips, and shivers. “Or…consider yourself lucky to be shown mercy this time, human. Say thank you.”

“Thank you, Kuna.”

“Tch-”

And with that said, it’s not long before you’re completely and utterly fucked through your orgasm by the mouth on his stomach—through every tiny shred n’ ounce of pleasure. 

Once Sukuna feels your quiverin’ pussy finish, he’s pulling out of you with the most lecherous squelch! Letting your thighs drape limply around his waist for a few seconds- that’s as long as the King can manage before he’s sitting up on the futon and flipping the two of you around.

So that your back was against the mattress. So that your head was hitting the pillows.

Sukuna crawls his massive figure down the length of your body- four arms pinning back your slick-sheened legs as he pushes his head between them. He’s wasting no time before digging his larger-than-mortal nose between your sodden pussylips and giving your cunt a good liiiiiiiiick of his actual tongue - this time tasting you with his actual mouth.

“Shit—” You’re surging up from your comfortable position, sparks sizzling in your brain. “A-again, Kuna?”

“Your master never had his fill.”

And with that said, he’s lavishin’ your pussy with countless long licks and dribbles. Lips glued to your folds. Breathing through his nose. Sukuna darts his tongue out - thick, though definitely not to the extent of his stomach mouth’s - and zig-zags it across your entrance.

Easing his wet muscle inside—inside and inside. He’s scourin’ every inch of your walls as though to check every mark he’s made before. Just so tender. 

The velvety inches of his tastebuds flickering in and out- five inches long, you’re realizing automatically. Far longer than a normal human’s.

And it just drives you insane. 

The edges of his fangs nip either side of your entrance - Sukuna had already left you so raw with his cursed tongue prior, so now it’s only taking a few seconds before he’s getting you to spray your orgasmic juices all over his mouth once more—“K-Kuna, I’m close.”

He hums at the feeling of your trembling fingers weaving into his pink hair, “Close? Stupid brat, you’re already cumming.”

The wetness of your cunt spills down his chin.

And Sukuna’s dragging his tongue iiiiiiiiiiiin and out at a constant, sloppy pace to get you through your high. To elongate it. Curving the pointed tip of his tongue against your g-spot - he holds it there for a few seconds just to feel you shake n’ clench around him.

Before he’s breathing through his nostrils and starting to synchronize your peaks with the slashes of his tongue. “Mhmmmm—” He moans out sultry vibrations, they send shockwaves up your spine. “Yes- fuck, yes. I believe this pussy is ready for me.”

Raging through you hard and fast - he doesn’t have much time before your legs start to twitch cutely with overstimulation. Tears sheening down your face. Your jaw unfastened with the most sinful noises. 

Sukuna’s prominent nose pushes up against your clit and you’re crying out—

Looking up at you with hungry, half-lidded eyes. “I believe this pussy is ready to be my queen.”

With the pins and needles of your last two orgasms still coursing through your body, it’s nothing but a blur to you as Sukuna hovers his large body over yours once more. And it’s as if one second you’re blinking up into his handsome face, and in the next—you’re finding him laid back against the mattress- and you laid back against him. 

Your head rests against his collarbone. Your back was arched against his stomach mouth.

Your legs were dangling off somewhere around his lower half- until Sukuna reaches two of his powerful arms down to position you properly. First, he’s grabbing either side of your waist and aligning you with where his clothed erections were—then he’s spreading your legs wiiiiiiide open.

Finally, he’s cupping his clawed hands underneath your thighs and pulling them up, up, up, upwards—until they were stretched out almost beyond your ears. And Sukuna was just basking proudly in this rude full nelson that he’d manhandled you into.

Gruff laugh echoing by the side of your ear, “And now…” In the corner of your teary peripherals, you’re seeing his other two arms bend to your lower half. “-to check for myself whether this pussy can really follow orders…”

Your kimono was already an utter mess- and Sukuna doesn’t have to do much to have it bunched around your naked hips. Your cunt all glistening with slick n’ saliva from earlier—hissing at the heated air that’s hitting you. “Shit…I need you so badly, master.”

“Then I expect you to take every inch.” He replies ominously. Just then, his eager fingers drop to the hemline of his pants. “I expect you to take every drop-”

And he’s tugging.

Only for your jaw to fall—

Because Ryomen Sukuna wasn’t just huge - you’d already expected as much, given his height and other physical prowess. But he was just staggering.

Just like the rest of him, there was double the number of appendages as there would be on a normal human. Two achingly-hard cocks stacked on top of each other. Inches upon inches. Despite your counting challenge earlier, you’re having trouble registering the sheer lengths that he could possibly be - ten…no….twelve? Perhaps even longer. Though you’re noticing that the upper one was just the slightest bit longer than the other.

Both just as girthy. 

Round and reddened. The plump, puckered tips upon their ends throbbed with carnal desire- oozing out generous helpings of milky-white precum that dribble down the front of your cunt. It mixes with the mess already made before, and leaves your thighs sticky with need. 

Heavy ballsack twitching underneath his second shaft. So many veins that you lose count.

“K-Kuna—” You’re whimpering as he starts to rub the shafts of his two cocks between your swollen pussylips. Pushin’ them apart and making space for his ruthless girths instead, “Want it inside, Kuna- hck! I really crave you inside me…”

“Oh, little human…” He coos from above. Larger face craning down next to yours, “Did you really believe that I was hesitating? That I was waiting for you?”

“I suppose…”

“Here’s where you are mistaken, my puny thing.” Sukuna trundles, and you don’t have to look behind to know that his sharp fangs were making an appearance. “I am no kindred man.”

A shiver runs down your spine.

And before you can open your mouth to ask what exactly he meant—his rounded tips press against your wettened crevice. Just the sweetest dual pecks, they’re letting out harsh slurps! as he starts to slip around your needy hole. “I wasn’t waiting for your body to get ready, as you so might have believed.”

“Th-then—?” You sob.

“I was waiting…” Your body bucks down into his, your hands reach up to grab at his pinkish locks and- 

And your dagger slips out.

His voice grows excited. “I was waiting-” Both of you reach for it at the same time, Sukuna with his four arms and you with your two. Your heart stutters- your hand closes around the thick, metallic hilt—“…for a distraction.”

Several things are happening at once: for one, Sukuna finally forgoes teasin’ at your readied hole to instead scour his cocks inside - fucking in with a long, hard thrust. Deeeeeeeply pressing against your cervix—it feels as though he’s splitting you sensually from the inside out, and you’ve never felt anything better.

And then you’re closing your fingers around the blade - tight - and aiming behind you to press the sharpened edge of it against his throat. 

You knew you’d struck your target. Especially when you feel the dagger tremble as he chuckles- chuckles. The King of Curses has the audacity to chuckle.

When you have a weapon to his throat.

You’re unsure whether it was overconfidence or something else entirely- but his hips don’t falter for a single second as he rams his swabbin’ tips thoroughly inwards—thumping away at the back of your pussy. Your ears sizzle with the slamming impact of skin-on-skin, “And so?” He mutters to you, “For what reason do you stall? Do it.”

You grit your teeth, blade pressing against his sunkissed skin until a bead of crimson peppers out. “Do you believe that I am too cowardly to do so?”

“Forbid the thought.” Sukuna hums, “A King assassinated by his favorite concubine? How romantic. I merely implore you to hasten-”

“I shall—”

“So do it.”

“Do not regret-”

“Do it.” 

In fact, he leans in even closer as though to help you.

He’s fucking you deep from the rounded orifice of your cunt, to the very depths of your womb. Pulse thundering inside - until it felt like he was taking over every single part of you—until your teeth were set on edge, and the thud-thud-thudding of his matching cocktips was all that you could think of. 

Your hand trembles around the hilt.

Your lips wobble with emotion.

Your eyes lock deeply with Sukuna’s own hellishly crimson ones, and-

And the dagger falls gently onto the cotton futon.

Sukuna’s body ripples with a sensation that could’ve been anything from pleasure, to victory, to utter glee—but most of all, his tone just sounded awed. 

“I knew there was something special about you, woman.”

And then you’re being crushed in Sukuna’s arms as far back as you would go - as high as your legs could reach above your head, as curvaceously as your spine could bend against his core. He’s manhandling you like nothing but a ragdoll above him—plastered to his muscular back, you’re at the mercy of his vicious thrust after thrust.

The stretch was just incredible.

The stretch was like nothing you’ve ever felt before.

Two thick, loooooooong shafts that were mazin’ between your sopping pussylips- the rounded edges of their cockheads manage to swerve your tight walls apart. Jostling against one another. Throbbing in synchronization inside you - ba-dump! Ba-dump! Ba-dump! Scraping his thumping veins inside and reaching aaaall across every nook, orifice, and cranny. Just so big.

Sukuna himself grunts out in pleasure as his cocks manage to press through the slight resistance you still maintained - his cursed tongue had stretched you out incredibly, and he’s groaning out in pleasure as his cocks manage to slide against one another and then against you- “And now- hah, and now I believe you remember what you promised me?”

“Promised?” Your lashes flutter open, “I-I’m afraid…”

“You promised me an heir.”

Your maw droops open. Your heart starts to race.

Your cunt’s drooling out your arousal at the prospect faster than you could register it- and Sukuna feels the sploshin’ leaks around his thickened bases. His grin stretches as he takes in your unspoken reaction, and before you know it—both sliding cocks are knocking at the door to your very womb-

“And I’m not Ryomen Sukuna if I don’t fuck one into you tonight, brat.”

Rough thrusts. Crushing you in his big, beefy arms. 

Closer and closer. Tighter and tighter. 

If you thought that you’d been treated like a ragdoll earlier- then you’d been lucky. Because now you’re pressed between his bulging biceps and his pecs, sweat covering both your bodies in a thin sheen as your movements grow more and more fervent—“Fuck a- hah, fuck my heir into you.” Sukuna was barely speaking by now - short, rasping bursts. “Fuck you so big and fuuuuuuuull.”

Running two hands down your front—“Master, I have doubts that it gets much more full than this.”

And he lets out what almost sounds like a guffaw, “It can.”

“Wh-what do you mean- oh.”

And all this time, you’d been damn thankful that Sukuna had chosen to stretch you out on his oversized tongue first—how else would you have fit him so easily? Softenin’ up the snug exterior of your channel. Mapping out your sweetest spots. 

Because it just made it even easier to slip inside—it just made it sooooo much more convenient for his dual tips to probe open your wet cunt. Inching and easing.

But then you’re starting to feel a third intrusion.

Then you’re starting to feel his needy tongue once more.

You’re gasping- 

The slightest, smallest ticklish sensation of…none other than his cursed mouth dragging down the inner sorts of your thighs. Just teasing. Just the roughened ridges of his tastebuds, long enough that he can snake them down and flatten them over that soft skin beside your cunt.

And in a matter of mere moments, Sukuna’s rugged hands settle deeper against your skin. Tight. Tough. He’s double-checking to make sure that your restless hips couldn’t skin away- before reeling his hips back and penetrating you in longer, harder ruts—each rude slammin’ of his cocks accompanied by the soothing laps of his cursed tongue. 

“Y-yet again—?” You’re blabbering out stupidly. Tears falling in big, bulbous beads down either of your cheeks and ending up smeared, “Kuna-”

“Mhmmmm.” He hums out - and you could almost hear the smugness in it. The way his piercing canines make an appearance as he says, “It’s for your own good, brat.” One of his hands lifts off of your sweat-covered body - folded like a lawnchair - and Sukuna runs it down your middle.

He stops right above where both his swabbin’ cocks and his tongue had started to form a tiny bulge at your stomach—“S-sensitive-”

“Exactly.” He sounds so content with himself. So damn content.

Those handsome lips - both pairs of them - quirk further upwards as he’s massaging the front of your stomach—particularly over that one spot where you’re stuffed till you’re bloated. Pressing down-down-dooooown- “And how shall this puny human body handle carrying my heir, hm?” He growls as he accelerates his ruts, “How?”

Mouth sobbing open in answer.

You're gripping onto either side of his muscular body and swervin’ your hips in response- unsure whether you wanted to rut back down for more or just…

“Running away?” Sukuna's dangerous trundle sounds from behind you, and the clasp he has on your shuddering body only grows stronger. Before you know it, you’re being manhandled like nothing but his favorite toy and shoved right back onto his twin erections-

He continues, “If you can’t handle two of my cocks—” They’re emptying out at the bottom of your pussy with two distinct thuds! The top one first, and then the squeezin’ of the latter. “If you can’t even handle my tongue…the babies of my lineage tend to be large.” 

Palm pressing down on your stomach.

“Does this pretty womb have enough space?”

And there’s nothing more for you to do but throw your head backwards and buck up into his awaiting arms. He’s only seeming to crush you even deeper against his toned body, “It does-”

“What was that?” One pink brow raises.

“I s-said it does—it does.” You’re blabbering away, thighs attempting to wrangle downwards so that you can steady yourself. But the only thing that’s succeeding in doing is making Sukuna tighten his restraint on you maddeningly - “I can fit even more of you- hngh, I can fit your…”

He grins- and this time it’s his second mouth that hisses demandingly at you. “Say it.”

“Heir in here…” And if this was any other time - if you’d been in any clearer of a state of mind - you wouldn’t have said such embarrassing words in your lifetime. And yet, here you were—bouncin’ down welcomingly into Sukuna’s largely gaped maw. “I want it, Kuna.”

“Heh?” He grins, “Then brace yourself.”

And it’s the only warning you’re getting - honestly, you’re surprised to realize that he’d given you any at all. 

Because in the next few seconds- his cursed mouth goes from lappin’ away at the sweet, sweet juices coating the edges of your cunt—to slithering between those puffy pussylips of yours and attempting to devour your pussy whole again.

Two arms laced behind your clammy scalp. Two more arms reaching down to toy with your overstimulated pussy.

“O-oh gods-” Hiccuping through your tears as you start to feel the pleasurable burn of your pussylips stretchin’ once more.

Wider and wider.

Deeper and deeper.

In, in, and in—

Sukuna's second mouth tenderly whips apart your wet walls—with the most lecherous squeeeelch! he's then attempting to stroke his tongue inwards between the thrusts of his dual cocks. Sharp, stabbing thrusts. Just to fit inside.

Three- three of his sinful appendages attempting to stuff you all full - you're losing your mind already with his throbbing cocks, but now Sukuna's tongue was a different sort of texture altogether that was just leaving you on the verge of-

“You can cum.” The King sputters out against your temple, lips moving what seems like a mile a minute. “But you have to remember to reward me with a strong heir after, hm?” Tap-tapping at the tummy bulge he was fucking into you, “Hafta give me one with my powers. Hafta give me one that- hngh, I can train into the strongest. Hafta give me one with- haaaah…” He breathes out laboriously, “-that smile.”

Your eyes shoot open as you’re registering exactly what he’s uttered, “Kuna…fuck, it feels so good.”

“Please…” And it might just be the first time that you’ve witnessed the infamous Ryomen Sukuna utter a word of plea since you’ve met him. That chiselled cheek of his nuzzles down the side of your temple, “-call me your husband.”

Oh.

Oh.

You’re barely even given enough time to let the entire ordeal sink of having him inside you sink in- before the wooden panels beneath the futon creeeeeeak—! And Sukuna’s arching his hips fully off of the dampened mattress, entering his entire greedy lengths into your pussy.

Again and again.

Reeling back until it was only the plump, glossy tips kissin’ at your entrance - before drag-drag-dragging his pulsating length inwards. In-between he just barely manages to squeeze his textured tongue inside.

Repeating once. Twice. Thrice. So many times that you’ve lost count, and you’re barely in control of your own ministrations as a third hand stuffs between your pussylips and squeezes your neglected clit.

And then your overstimulation’s hitting you all at once. All at once.

And Sukuna realizes it before you do- when you’re shivering primally on top of him and cumming once more. Around his cocks. Around his mouth. It’s such a white-hot pleasure that bursts stars behind your eyelids, creating heat at the tips of your toes and then sending it searing through every vessel within you-  your body shakes in his hold as the dopamine courses right through you. 

His lips crack into a chuckle, and he’s cooing softly down at you as he ruts his hips even harder—fucking you through every peak. “Theeeeeere, there…” Something almost sweet- though you know better than to expect sweet from Ryomen Sukuna. “My poor human couldn’t handle it?”

“I-I can…” You’re arguing back- even though your answer sounds like nothing but a jumbled mess of syllables. The sheer force of the high that wracks through you is enough to make your head spin, thighs shake—fucked up, up, and up by his never-ending hips. 

And he can only smile, “Is that so…? Then perhaps my fierce concubine won’t mind if I just—speed up a little bit.”

Even more?

Your mouth drops as you’re perhaps getting ready to beg for mercy- before even the choked-up syllables at your throat start getting fucked back down by his roverin’ tips.

Rubbing their flared ridges across every spot of your insides, dribblin’ out gooey precum into the smallest nooks and crannies. You’re feeling the sultry slickness of it puddling up deep inside you, and it’s almost enough to send you raging right into another high-

“K-Kuna—!” Your voice cracks.

“I know, heh.” He snickers, deep and hoarse. “I can feel this pussy begging even more f’me.” A few more vicious strokes and you’re feeling another faint arc of pleasure that you’re sure must be your nth high of the night. 

Hard and fast.

Hitting through every one of your bundled nerves- but especially that g-spot he’d bruised by now. Two large circular marks in the exact shape and circumference of his bludgeoning tips - they were slapping at two separate times—one after the other. Ba-dump! Ba-dump! 

Except…this time, Sukuna’s own thickened cocks twitch inside of you as you’re clenchin’ through your high-

“And don’t you worry, brat…” He growls from behind, “This time, your husband’s not too far behind—”

Your eyes flutter open in pure shock- and one of his hands reaches down to tilt your chin to look at him. “Shit-”

“Say it f’me.” Sukuna rasps, “Say it- call me your husband while I cum inside.”

And who were you to deny an order from the King himself? 

The words are barely escaping your lips—“C-cum inside me, husband…”

Before the strongest sorcerer in history throws his head back and jerks his hips upwards- letting the pouring wads of his cum plug your pussy up twofold. What’s better than one of his cocks seeping deeply at your innards? Two of them…There are so many gooey wads of it trickling all deeeeep inside- splashin’ against the spongy layer of your cervix. Swashing down your tight channel.

You’re shuddering as you feel the delicious sensation of him sprayin’ inside you - a sheer volume that ends up frothin’ in-between your legs. A circle of white forms around both of Sukuna’s thick bases. “There we go-” He snarls. “There- there, we go…”

“Shit—it feels so, ngh…” You don’t even have the words. Your body quakes as his ridged tastebuds start tickling the outer parts of your pussy. Long, luscious licks - it’s enough to make you cum again.

“And this baby shall become my heir.” Sukuna whispers - mostly to himself than anything. He runs a hand down the sweat front of your body, left ever-so-slightly more inflated with his constantly-pumping cum. “This baby shall be taught to become the strongest. This baby shall be- hah, feared amongst the nation’s lands and beyond…” His fanged smile grows, “Known by my name, I shall teach this baby to protect its mother with their life.”

The fatness of his tongue dips between your swollen pussylips- lapping again and again. He’s torn between drinkin’ up and pushing back the pearly white beads of cum that kept on leaking from you.

And you’re merely draped limply over his front. Crushed to his powerful body. 

“And this baby’s gonna become the most precious thing in this- hah, estate…” You feel him press a kiss to your temple, “-alongside you, of course, Your Majesty.”

“Majesty…?”

“The Queen of Curses.”

For who could’ve tamed the infamous Ryomen Sukuna?

In no time, he’s finally fucked himself into your pussy through his high- and it’s a tangled mess of limbs and moans as Sukuna attempts to pull out. Before realizing that his cocks were probed in too deeply, before realizing that that would mean letting his pool of cum spread out of your cunt.

Losing all his hard work.

And so he sniffs haughtily, reaching one pair of his hands up into the air and clicking-

In a split-second, you’re finding your back against the pillows. As if in a dream, you’re blinking up to stare into Sukuna’s handsome face—two hands braced upon either side of your head, both cocks still shovelled deeply inside of you. Throbbing. Did he just…did he just use his powers to change-

“Yes.” He answers your unspoken question- of perhaps it had been spoken, you’re too drunk on his cocks to realize whether or not you’d blabbered it out loud. “I call it…teleporting.” 

“Th-that should be outlawed-” You’re gasping. The air around you felt tightened with what you assumed must be his cursed energy - you’d heard the stories about them. Who didn’t?

And he merely hums, “I am the law, woman.”

Without another word, one of his four hands snake between your legs- his cursed second mouth had finished up lappin’ at the coat of cum around your thighs. And he licks his lips and belches almost gluttonously once Sukuna reaches down to cup your pussy and—

“O-oh.” Something buzzes between your overstimulated legs. 

Almost as soon as it’d started, it’s over- and Sukuna pulls his hand away—and then his rugged cocks. Letting out the most lecherous sluuuuurp! as he’s reeling his hips away, rounded tips funnel out from between your pussylips and leaving such a-

Wait…your eyes widen. There was no mess - whatever technique that Sukuna had collected between your legs stopped his cum from leaking out.

And the King of Curses wastes no time waiting for your surprise to register- not before letting out a deep snicker. He straightens his bulky body n’ edges himself closer—and before you know it, you’re suddenly finding your head straddled by Sukuna’s meaty thighs.

His dual, furiously-hot erections slapping their shafts down onto your readied face.

Both fanged mouths grin, “Now…open, human.”

And you just knew he was about to make you take both.

A/N. DJSFHSJKHS-

Sukuna found himself in another’s body in his mid-twenties, awakening one morning in complete darkness, even though he’d been certain his eyes were open. It was a strange feeling at first, a resignation to a suspicion he’d held all his life that there was no destined person for him, giving in to the belief that he’d spend a day floating in nothingness with no other half for his soul to cling to.

His assumption was broken swiftly, at the realisation that he still held some manner of awareness even if his sight was impaired. There was a breeze blowing against his body, chatter sounding off in the distance, and soft sheets were pressing up against skin which surely wasn’t his.

This person, whoever they were, had a body that was exhausted. He ached in places he’d never ached before, his shoulders and upper back straining, like their owner had been carrying a weight beyond their capability. He felt desperately weak in that form, suddenly aware that he only had a human number of limbs to control, and lacked the strength and size he was used to commanding.

In the darkness clouding his vision, he was surprised to find that the blackness wasn’t as deep as he’d originally thought, able to make out fuzzy shapes in the dark which he could only assume made up his surroundings. His hand reached for his eyes, setting his lips into a grim line at the confirmation they were open.

His destined lover was blind.

Disappointment settled into his chest. He had never taken much stock in soulmates in the first place, didn’t really believe in love, but this just furthered his confirmation that the whole matter was a farce. He found respect for the strong - strength was the only thing that truly mattered to him, and yet here he was, in the body of a blind woman.

A feeble little thing hardly able to fend for herself.

What good was she to a man like Sukuna?

A knock on the door startled him. “Are you awake? The madam wants me to help you get ready.”

Sukuna said nothing, trying to figure out why it felt like your body wanted to draw in on itself, your pulse quicking in a seemingly innate reaction to the voice at the door.

“Please, I know you’ve been ill but he’s been calling every day for the past week, the madam doesn’t want to keep him waiting any longer. He’s been bringing forth all manner of threat, and if you’re not careful he’ll buy you out. I know that isn’t what you want. Just let me tend to you and allow him a visit. Keep his temper at bay.”

Sukuna frowned, attempting to piece together what was happening. It was hard without the visual clues of his surroundings, but based on the snippet of conversation he concluded that you were likely a courtesan of some form. Once again, his view of you, and the soulmate system in general, dropped through the floor.

Blind and a whore.

Perfect.

“One moment.” He called out, taken aback by the lovely feminine voice that fell from his lips. It was a soft, delicate sound, one which wouldn’t sound out of place accompanied with a harp. He found himself shocked at how much he enjoyed it, considering saying something else just to hear it again.

Finding the door proved to be a more difficult task than he’d been expecting. He’d already stumbled standing up from your bed, thrown off by his lack of vision and by feet that were ridiculously small compared to what he was used to. His centre of gravity felt all wrong, and his body felt generally unbalanced without his lower set of arms.

Moving at a snail's pace, he made it across the room, impressed that he didn’t run into anything on his journey over. He was grateful for the shadowy outlines present in your visionless gaze, certain that the situation would be made harder without even that as a guide.

Fumbling for the handle, he slid open the door. “Morning. Oh honey, you look like a ghost.” A hand pressed against his skin, and he was ushered over to another part of the room, grateful for the guidance. There was the sound of a chair being moved. “Take a seat.”

Sukuna hesitated, not quite sure where the chair was. He reached out nonchalantly with his hand, trying to feel for it while the other woman’s focus was elsewhere, seemingly rifling through a bag of something. Able to just about make out a black splodge in the centre of his vision, Sukuna took a seat, only to thud down onto the floor.

It hurt. It hurt significantly more than pain Sukuna was used to enduring. He’d experienced all manner of injury - he’d had his blood and guts pouring out onto the floor in the midst of a fight, but somehow this was worse. How fragile was this body of yours? He was glad that he wasn’t born as some weak human, grateful that the abominable aspects of his body increased his strength rather than weakened it.

How could you live like this?

“My lady?” The woman seemed immediately panicked, reaching down and easily hoisting you up by the arm, aiding Sukuna onto the chair. “I’m sorry, you usually tell me you don’t need assistance, I wasn’t expecting-” she cut herself off for a moment, leaving Sukuna in silence and struggling to read the room with no visual cues. “You don’t seem like yourself at all this morning. You’re being very quiet.”

Sukuna said nothing, certain that he could hear the hint of a smile in the woman’s tone.

It was said that when soulmates swapped bodies, you could not under any circumstance tell someone that you were a different inhabitant to usual, else the spell would be broken and you’d both be immediately sent home.

It was an option Sukuna had contemplated the moment the woman walked in, eager to return to his own healthy form. However, he was also a man of great curiosity and it wasn’t like he had much going on at his estate that day anyway. So he opted for silence, figuring he’d at least see, or hear, how the day played out.

There was no harm in that.

Regardless, the woman had seemingly sensed it immediately based on her sudden change of demeanor, but being likely as aware of the rules as Sukuna was, she kept her suspicions silent.

“It's Officer Sugawara who’s set to see you today,” she explained, soft hands running through your hair with a comb, giving Sukuna a shiver of pleasure. “You usually play shogi with the guy for a while and let him get drunk. He’s a proud man who’s desperate for a legitimate win, so you always give him your best and he refuses to give up until he’s too pissed to think anymore. So be on your best game, or he might want to pass his time in another way.”

The warning was clear and Sukuna found himself disgusted. If that man tried to lay a single hand on you while he was inhabiting your body, he’d make sure Sugawara wouldn’t walk out of the establishment alive.

Fortunately, Sukuna was an avid shogi player. He held a great love for the game and was self-assured where his skill was concerned. No one in his estate could beat him, so he was certain he could beat some Officer of the Shogun.

Although, he’d never played it blind - a fact that mildly concerned him.

He hoped the pieces were skillfully made with deep indents, else he’d be completely lost.

“Even though you’re usually talkative with me, you’re not all that chatty with regulars, so it’ll be fine if you stay quiet. On account of you not feeling yourself and all,” she said with a knowing giggle.

It took an ungodly amount of time for that woman to get you ready, and Sukuna wondered how you could bear experiencing such a thing day after day. It seemed such a waste to have so much effort devoted to doing your hair and make-up, and dressing you up, when you couldn’t even see the end result.

For all you knew you could look like a clown.

But Sukuna quickly became certain that wasn’t the case when he was led into another room, your helper grasping his arm in a steadying manner and making sure he was settled down on a pillow before introducing him to a man sitting opposite him. Sugawara wasted no time with greetings, letting out a gasp of awe at your radiant appearance and reaching out to kiss your hand.

Sukuna wanted to reel away at the feeling but remained still all the same. He hoped he didn’t have too much of a scowl on his face.

Even if he didn’t have any interest in you, he didn’t really want to ruin the life of some random blind girl. He loved cruelty, but even for him that felt like an unnecessary slight to a person who was supposed to hold the other half of his heart.

“You look gorgeous. Not sickly at all, might I add. I hope the madam hasn’t been telling lies.”

You were sick - outside of the blindness - Sukuna could feel it. At first he’d brushed off your frailty as something normal for puny little humans, but since rising from your bed he’d become aware that your quivering legs, aching bones and hummingbird heart were far from normal.

“I haven’t been well,” he said simply.

“Oh you poor thing, it's always the most beautiful ones who suffer the most.”

Sukuna found himself wondering what you looked like. He had a vague knowledge of Official Sugawara - he wasn’t an ugly man, certainly not one lacking in prospects by any means. He was powerful in his position in the government, and wasn’t the type who would visit some woman out of pity.

You must’ve been genuinely gorgeous to earn such affection from him.

It was a shame Sukuna would never know.

He wouldn’t look for you once he was back in his own body. He’d move on with his life and that would be that, leaving this day as nothing more than some distant dream.

The games of shogi went by quickly, and Sukuna found that it was easy to slip into your body without arousing suspicion. Once he’d gotten over the original barrier of having to feel each piece for their indents as he picked them up, he fell easily into the flow of it all.

This man across from him seeked little conversation once the games had started, and Sukuna was pleased at how well he was playing that afternoon. He didn’t let the man win once and, as your attendant had mentioned, Suguwara filled himself up with more and more drink. It felt nice to play someone outside of his estate, most of his servants were too afraid to face Sukuna in any sort of test.

It was equally nice to completely destroy a government official with his skill. He was certain this man was having the worst game of his entire life, unaccustomed to this treatment from the lovely courtesan he’d frequent.

But it was at the end of the seventh game, when Sukuna was feeling at his highest, that a disastrous hit would come to his ego.

“You’re really off your game today. I see you really aren’t feeling well,” Sugawara said. There was the sound of shuffling fabric, as if the man had leant forward.

“What?” Sukuna asked, the low disbelief coming out strange in your small voice.

“Your plays are much sloppier than usual. It feels like you’re going easy on me, given you usually destroy me before I can even think about what to do next. Today you’ve been giving me proper games. I don’t like it. You know I hate being pitied.”

Sukuna had to stop his mouth from falling agape.

He wasn’t playing bad games by any means, on the contrary, he was certain that he was playing better than he had in a while, happy to have a new opponent for once. Was this man really saying that you, the normal you, was more skilled at shogi than he was? He really found that hard to believe.

What would some blind courtesan know of tactics?

“Perhaps you’ve simply improved,” Sukuna mumbled bitterly, unwilling to accept that your mastery was greater than his.

Sugawara laughed. “How polite of you, my dear. I can assure you that isn’t the case, and we both know it.” There was some shuffling, and Sukuna sensed that the man was climbing to his feet. It was frustrating to have such limited vision, and he was glad to know that he’d wake up the following day able to see the world once more - he couldn’t imagine living like that all the time. “I’ll leave you to rest. When I return in a few days you best have returned to form, or perhaps the nature of our meetings will need to change.”

A heavy hand rested on your shoulder, wet and clammy against the silk you were draped in. Sukuna wasn’t sure if the disgust was born from his own thoughts on the matter, or from an impulsive response from your body. From your attendant’s words it was clear that you would never sleep with the man, likely keeping your shogi skills sharp to ensure he never won.

Once he was gone, Sukuna sat there in silence, thinking on the man’s parting words.

Were you really so talented?

Part of him wanted to convince himself that he’d been playing worse than usual on account of not being able to see the board, making it difficult for him to think out moves in advance, taking more time than normal while he grazed the pieces with his fingers.

But deep in his soul he knew that wasn’t the case.

He’d played expertly, and still that man knew his opponent wasn’t the real you. All on account of how amateur Sukuna’s ability had seemed compared to yours.

And as his day drew to a close in your body, he realised that he had to know. He had to play you, had to see firsthand just how dramatically your skill exceeded his. He wouldn’t believe it until he’d seen it.

The soulmate thing didn’t matter.

But he needed to meet with you all the same.

Just to sate his interest. That was all.

—

Months had passed since the day you’d swapped with your soulmate. Since the morning you’d awoken to a world of light of colour you’d never seen before, and would never see again.

It was a day you’d never be able to forget - the image of the grand estate you’d awoken in seared permanently into your mind, just like the face of your soulmate who had stared back at you in a bronze mirror. You’d gazed upon his body for longer than you should admit to, wondering for a brief moment if you’d misunderstood how humans looked.

That thought didn’t remain for long. It took no expert to understand that the man you’d been paired with was something unique - the very four armed monster who had half of Japan living in fear.

And as such, you wished you could forget your experience in his body, wished you could see anything but his oddly charming face, because your promised beloved was a monster of the highest calibre. But with only one singular day of vision under your belt, what you’d seen wasn’t so easily displaced, and you found yourself thinking of him often with a longing that you knew to be wrong.

You had told no one of the experience, not even your handmaid, who had outright asked what your body swap experience had been like, what your soulmate had been like, claiming that whoever they were had presented themselves as rather reserved when possessing your body. You’d brushed her off with a shrug, claiming him to be some soldier and nothing more.

No one could know the truth. If they knew you to have any link to such a terrible man they might view you as an associate, and someone deserving of death for something you hadn’t asked for.

The workings of fate seemed strange to you. Was it not enough punishment to be born blind? Why would you also be paired with a monster who seemed to view the human race with general disdain? You were certain he cared little for love, his servant had made that clear when you were in his body, so any hopes of having a soulmate had been stolen from you as a result of this pairing.

Part of you wondered if a man so vile as him might even take things a step further and track you down to put an end to your life, insulted by fate to suggest that it could control him in any capacity. Perhaps he would be further insulted to be paired with someone so damaged rather than some untarnished beauty.

You’d always heard he held great hatred for weakness.

Even so, despite your fear and desire to conceal yourself from him, you couldn’t forget him, couldn’t stop the flicker of longing in your chest you were certain all people held for their destined lovers. Because while he was unquestionably a monster, with a throne of skulls you had witnessed through his very eyes, he also seemed to be more than that.

He was a man of great loneliness, living in grand halls with only a handful of servants for company - and all but one of them would scuttle out of the way when he approached. He seemed to hold a great love for art, with his estate packed with paintings and tapestries and great vases, all kept in pristine condition. For a cannibal, he seemed to take great pride in the cleanliness of his surroundings, in the neat nature of his gardens and springs.

Even in his own appearance, he seemed to take great care, for there was no denying him to be a handsome man even with his unique features. He had a voice to match that beauty, one that you could hardly peel from your mind any more than you could forget his image.

His body was hard to maneuver, too big and confusing to control his many hanging limbs. In a way, it felt akin to your blindness, something different to the way humans were built to be, leaving him to struggle with an issue that no one else could relate to. You wondered how it had been for him in childhood - if he’d felt as isolated and scared as you had to know that everyone else was normal in a way you’d never been.

You pitied him, even through all his sins. You felt you could understand at least a piece of him from a day buried within the confines of his skin.

But still, you would never reach for him - wouldn’t poke the bear even if you could understand why it might bite. You were certain that someone like him would be unwilling to hear you out, unwilling to love or reflect on how he became the way he was - he would swipe your head from your shoulders just like everyone else, and that would be that.

So you would stay away, keep your dreams of him locked deep within your chest, and accept that distance was for the best.

There was more to life than soulmates.

Unfortunately, that choice wasn’t yours alone to make.

The madame had knocked on your door early that morning, with the golden light of the sun only just starting to peek in through your window. Lately you’d been having longer lie-ins and taking less clients as the cold of winter gripped the region. Along with the blindness, you’d been born with a particularly feeble body as a result of complications with your mother during her pregnancy, ailments which were always worse for you in the colder months.

Your bones strained as you pushed yourself up to a sitting position, calling for the woman to enter. As much as you longed to slip back into your dream of red eyes peering back at you with fiery desire, you were still beholden to the will of your employer, even in your months of weakness.

“How are you feeling, my dear?” She asked, as she slipped in through the door. You felt her weight dip the bed as she took a seat beside you, a gentle hand coming to rest on your shoulder.

“Mornings are always the worst but I can manage once I’m up and about. Has Sugawara come calling again?” Most regulars were understanding enough of your condition, and those that weren’t would generally be chased off by the madame or unloaded onto another of the courtesans. Sugawara was one of the few that generally wouldn’t accept such treatment, with only eyes for you.

It didn’t matter too much since the man only ever wanted to play shogi, and that was manageable enough even on your worst days. It seemed that he had no intention of laying with you until he’d beat you in a game fair and square, claiming that if that ever happened he’d buy you out and take you home for he would’ve earned your heart.

That talk always made you uncomfortable, for you had little interest in the man, but you were more than certain he had no chance at ever defeating you at shogi, and could therefore never lay claim to you - assuming he kept his word.

“Not Sugawara…” There was hesitation in her voice. “We’ve received a request for our finest shogi player to be sent to the mayor’s home this evening. Apparently the other courtesan houses have received the same request.”

“I didn’t think the mayor cared much for shogi.”

Again, there was a moment of silence. “No, he doesn’t. A rather unwanted guest has taken up residence in his home, and this is the demand that has come of it.” Immediately your blood ran cold, thoughts drifting away from the madame’s continuing chatter to the red eyes that sat so prominently in the darkness of your mind.

There was no question in your mind as to who this guest was.

And to call for shogi players had you certain he was looking for you. Would he execute you when you walked into a room so clearly lacking in vision? Put an immediate end to the one person who could potentially stir his cold heart if fate were to be believed?

It seemed like the only reasonable explanation

The request to send another in your place died on the tip of your tongue as you once again tuned in to what the madame was saying. “...make sure you’re in top form, I’ve heard any who lose to him are immediately disposed of, but I’m sure that man will be no match for you.”

You wouldn’t send another to face their death. You were the only courtesan in the house who was any good at shogi, anyone else would certainly perish. This was a meeting dictated by fate and you had no opportunity to run from it. You would face him head on and deal with your death graciously, greet your end alone in the dark just like everything else you’d ever faced.

“I’ll do my best,” you said to the madame, and that was the final moment you had for yourself, your sacrifice sealed by your words.

The rest of the morning was spent in a frenzied rush, dressing you up and perfecting your makeup, turning you into a sparkling beauty ahead of your presentation to a monster. Based on the quiet nature of your handmaid, the experience felt more like she was dressing your corpse for burial.

Neither of you spoke such a thing aloud, but tears dripped from sightless eyes all the same when she led you out to the carriage, the madam trailing behind her, sending you off with a soft farewell filled with a sense of finality.

—

Sukuna had undergone an annoying few months.

Steadily, he had made his way, region by region, up to the north of Japan in search of a blind shogi player whose skill allegedly eclipsed his own. In each area, he would call upon all shogi-playing courtesans to meet with him and join him in a game, in the hopes that one day it would be you sitting across from him.

So far, he’d been unsuccessful, and had left a growing pile of bodies and burnt villages in his wake, utterly irritated that the thing he was seeking still evaded his grasp. No one had beaten him. A few had come close but none of them had been blind, so he could be certain that they weren’t you.

He was beginning to wonder if you’d gone into hiding somewhere, forsaking your courtesan life entirely in a bid to avoid him. It wouldn’t surprise him - you’d been in his body, you’d seen he was a monster, a fragile little thing like you was probably terrified at the idea of ever crossing his path.

Either way, he’d still persevere. He’d kill every shogi player if that was what it took to get to you.

He’d recently found his way into the mountainous region of Miyagi, where winter was in full spring. Taking up residence in the mayor’s home in one of the more populous towns in the prefecture, he once again started his usual process of gathering the shogi players. Word spread fast and droves of them appeared swiftly, waiting to be called before him.

It went much as usual, with boring girls presenting themselves before him and providing him with equally boring games of shogi. These people were painfully predictable with no appreciation for the art of the game - really it was a gift for him to steal their lives from them, because he couldn’t imagine living while being so pitifully unskilled.

The pool of Miyagi courtesans was gradually running dry and Sukuna was preparing himself for another disappointing journey further north when his luck finally shifted.

He knew he’d found you the moment you walked in through the door.

You’d stumbled in meekly, eyes averted down to the floor as you bowed low and shuffled towards the centre of the room. You were taking care not to raise your head for him to look upon, and he quickly realised you were making your best effort to conceal your blindness from him, like you could keep your identity secret that way.

It was a futile attempt, for the very atmosphere around you felt charged, his heart picking up inexplicably at the very sight of you.

To say you were beautiful was an understatement. Everything about you was gorgeous, from your soft hair to the striking intensity of your unseeing eyes. You wore the finest silks and they hung off you well, complimenting your figure. He found himself eager to touch you, to rid you off your lovely gown and have his fingers against your smooth skin.

But that wasn’t the reason he had come, and he would play you before entertaining any other matter.

“Sit,” he ordered, taking great amusement in the shiver that seemed to run through you at the sound of his voice.

You dropped to your knees on the cushion before the board, hands pressing against the edge of the table. It was the first chance he got to take a proper look at your eyes, expecting them to be clouded over, but taken aback by the lovely colour your irises still held beneath that mist.

“You’re blind.” He observed aloud, taking note of the way your teeth caught your lower lip anxiously.

“I see more than enough,” your response was guarded.

He hummed, a sly grin settling on his face. Idly, he wondered if you could sense it, because you seemed to tense up a little, fidgeting across from him in a way his traitorous brain seemed to register as endearing. “Is that so? Do you see enough to know my strategy before we commence? Or will you disappoint me like the others?”

“You tell me.”

Your words had his heart stirring against his will, impressed by your serenity before him, still sitting up straight and calm despite the fear he could sense within you. You were a woman who held confidence despite it all, harboured strength even in the face of your obvious weaknesses. He wondered what you were thinking, if you believed he was there to execute you for the mere transgression of being his soulmate.

It wasn’t a foolish assumption.

He would kill you without a second thought if you were uninteresting to him.

But he’d reserve that judgement until after you had played. He had been promised someone exceptional and that was what he wished to see, anything less and your blood would stain the floor just like every other woman who had sat before him. Would you still be so calm if you could see the bodies littering the room? He assumed not.

He wondered if you hated him, if you cursed fate itself to be paired with a man like him. Nothing about you gave anything away, all your focus fixed on the board in front of you, your hands moving steadily against the wood of the board, as if centring yourself.

“Shall we begin?” He asked.

“Yes.”

Sukuna couldn’t quite comprehend what had transpired in that first game he played against you.

He had approached things in much the same manner that he always would when playing shogi - opening strong and attempting to completely overwhelm his opponent, and yet somehow he found opportunities snatched from him at every turn.

Nothing seemed to catch you off guard. Any attempted play was greeted with an easy answer from you, as though you were battling a child. You were always three steps ahead of him, never hesitating in the shifting of a piece, moving with a certainty that had him transfixed.

He found that he couldn’t draw his eyes away from you, his struggle on the board forgotten at the realisation he’d been well and truly defeated. There was no point in struggling further - you had swatted him aside in the way that he usually defeated others, and you had done it with no glee or brag, nothing more than passive indifference once the games finally came to an end.

Your shoulders were raised, as if awaiting something you wouldn’t be able to see coming. A strike from him, perhaps? Or the neat removal of your head from your shoulders? The same fate of all others he’d played across the last few months.

But he wasn’t in the position to do anything at that moment, lashes fluttering as he stared at you, his heart hammering against his ribcage.

There had been no lie told about your skill - on the contrary, you had exceeded his expectations spectacularly. He wanted to play you again and again, wanted to witness the beauty of the way you played, wished to spend hours lost deep in thought considering how he could even begin to pick you apart in a match.

He could spend years sitting across you, gazing upon your lovely form while you worked away in silence with such unquestionable mastery.

No wonder Sugawara had been disappointed in Sukuna’s ability. He couldn’t hold a candle to what you were.

“How?” He asked, unable to think of another word to offer.

Your head was still lowered, eyes fixed elsewhere. He wished you’d look at him, allow him a clearer view of your face, but it occurred to him that such a request may not be easily granted with your lack of vision. You would never be able to lock eyes with each other - it would be something entirely meaningless for you.

“You aren’t all that good,” you spoke softly, a smile playing on your lips.

Sukuna disagreed with your sentiment, considering he’d never been beaten before, but perhaps you’d consider all his previous opponents to be genuinely pitiful at the game.

“So, will you take my life now? Or is that reserved for the losers?” You asked.

“To take the life of someone I could not best would be cowardly and pointless,” he said with a snort. “How would I ever grow to be better than you if I extinguished you from the world? Don’t be foolish. We will play again.”

And again you played.

Game after game until the sun began to rise in the sky, and Sukuna could sense exhaustion drifting through your fragile form. You were shivering from the cold, and he had Uraume bring in a robe to wrap around you, keenly aware of how sickly you seemed to look beneath all the beauty. You were setting up the board for your tenth match when Sukuna finally put an end to things.

“Enough. I would take no joy in defeating an exhausted opponent.” He rose to his feet, stretching as he moved. He wasn’t keen on remaining still for long periods of time, but you seemed accustomed to it, staying deathly still upon your cushion, uncertainty evident in your posture.

“Then, you will send me to my home?” You asked.

“No.” The word escaped him before he could stop it.

He did not wish for you to go anywhere, lest you slip from his grasp never to be found again. It was because he wanted to play you more, that’s what he told himself, but there was more to it than that, and in his soul he knew it.

He never wanted the image of you on your knees before him to slip away, never wanted to lose the pleasurable feeling of warmth that swelled in his chest with you there within his gaze.

“You’ll accompany me to my home, and we’ll play until I’m satisfied.”

—

Weeks had passed since you’d arrived at Sukuna’s estate in the Hida Mountains.

You’d been given no time to bid goodbye to the women at the only home you’d ever known, swept off in a carriage down south where you had to relearn your surroundings in a totally new environment.

Of course, it wasn’t the first time you’d been in the estate, but that experience made little impact on the ease of traversing around with no vision. You had to move slowly, fingers brushing on blurry objects shadowed in the darkness, hoping you didn’t trip over something or walk into a screen door.

For the most part, you were left to your own devices. Sukuna had spoken little to you on the journey home, opting to ride on his horse rather than in the carriage with you, and he’d been equally elusive in his own estate, leaving you in isolation for days at a time.

You couldn’t complain, for your days were spent in peace and serenity.

You would take long walks in the breeze of his garden, have his servants read aloud to you, and practice playing the erhu. On days where it was particularly cold and the chill seeped into your bones, you would remain in the grand bed he had provided and find greater comfort than you ever had in the old bed you’d laid upon in the courtesan house.

The only obligation you ever had to fulfill were shogi games. And during the times that he wasn’t absent from the estate, those would take place every evening, in Sukuna’s own private quarters.

It was an odd decision, considering that the servants played shogi out in the garden, where a proper table was set up for that purpose. But it seemed that Sukuna took care in ensuring your meetings were private - a decision you didn’t dare read into too deeply.

You didn’t dare read into any of his behaviour too deeply, lest you rip your own heart from your chest.

That first meeting with him had been like nothing you’d ever experienced - genuine desire overcoming you at the deep tone of his voice. Even knowing that he could cause your death with little effort, you couldn’t bury the lust within you, a fire that only burned stronger with each encounter with him.

It was hard to hold it together, to pretend that you wouldn’t fling yourself into his arms given the chance, but you tried all the same, keeping yourself distant and cold, like you didn’t dream of him between your legs each night, imagining the sound of his voice whispering sweet nothings against your ear.

Whether he felt the effect to the same extent you did, you weren’t sure. You were certain you’d never know. His interest in you was surrounding shogi, and shogi alone.

One evening, you were sitting across from him having played a handful of games, finding victory had fallen into your hands even more easily than normal. Sukuna seemed distracted by something, the sound of fidgeting settling in your ears. He hadn’t moved to start a new game, and based on the shadowy shapes in your vision, you could only assume he was leaning forward upon the table, bringing him close enough for his breath to fan your face.

“I killed today,” he said. Those were the first words he’d spoken to you that evening - you always followed his example with conversation, if he was feeling chatty you would indulge him, if he wished for silence you would give him that too.

You weren’t exactly sure where he was going with that statement, nor were you certain what type of response he was seeking, so you offered him a hum of acknowledgement and little more. You didn’t wish to think of the death that stained his hands, but nor did it build your animosity towards him.

To some extent you could understand lashing out at the world when you were someone so desperately lonely as he was. Part of you believed that if you hadn’t been so frail perhaps you’d lash out at the world for your own condition. His primary servant had told you he’d been despised throughout his life, and when you find only cruelty in humans it's difficult to cling to kindness.

Sukuna wasn’t so simple as a mere monster. You’d understood that in the day you’d spent in his body, and had only further confirmed it by the intelligence he displayed when you’d speak over games of shogi. He had a great admiration for art and skill, and had seemed rather taken when you’d recited poetry, responding with verses of his own.

He was a multi-faceted man, and much of what you saw only seemed to further your attraction to him, even knowing it was wrong, even knowing you’d be hated for it. For once, you felt you’d found someone who understood what it was like to be you, to be cut off from the easy lives lived by most others.

A soul that entwined so perfectly with yours, even if he’d never be aware of such a thing.

“Do you wish to know who I killed?” He asked.

“I know few people, my lord. I doubt a name would mean anything to me.”

“This one might. I’ve heard you’re familiar with Officer Sugawara? He’s one of the Shogun’s men?”

Thoughts of your regular flickered through your mind. If you were being honest with yourself, you were glad to not have to see him anymore - him or any of the other clients you’d been forced to take. Courtesan life had been difficult for you, forced into it thanks to the conditions of your birth and kept there by a disability that made it hard to escape the life for something better.

Life in Sukuna’s estate had been easier, especially as the weeks passed and you grew more comfortable in the belief that Sukuna wasn't going to steal your life from you. You’d lived in fear of Sugawara buying you out, of being forced to live like some doll in the house of a terribly boring man whose voice sounded like nails on a chalkboard to your ears.

“I know him.”

“Knew him, would be more apt. His body lies at the foot of the mountain.” Sukuna spoke matter-of-factly. “He came to claim you from me. I refused and we couldn’t reach an amicable agreement, so I dealt with it another way.”

You weren’t sure how to react, struggling to process the words. That Sugawara would follow you down to Hida already came as a surprise, you hadn’t known how deep his devotion ran. But somehow, you found yourself rather taken by Sukuna’s decision, by the certainty in his choice to keep you.

To kill a man whose death could cause him issues with the Shogun might as well have been an outright confession of love.

Sugawara’s death meant little to you. Men like that died all the time, and they saw women as little more than pretty objects to own. Sugawara had seen you as an impressive party trick, a clever cat rather than a human with depth and desires of her own. You hadn’t wanted to be his, wouldn’t have liked for Sukuna to surrender you to him.

“Are you irritated with me? When I controlled your body you seemed repulsed at his presence. Perhaps you have a heart too soft for blood and death.”

“No- I-” You hesitated. “Did you do this to protect me?”

There was silence for a moment, and you longed to see his facial expression, but were forced to settle for the hint of confusion in his tone. “Of course. I’ve protected you since bringing you here. You can hardly protect yourself.”

You couldn’t find it in you to be offended - he’d been in your body, he knew of your frailty better than anyone.

“Why? Just because you enjoy shogi so much?”

“Somewhat. Though I must confess, lately I have been losing interest in the game. I feel I’ve come up against an insurmountable wall.” Panic filled you immediately, mind running at a million miles a minute as you analysed his statement. If he was growing bored of playing would he cast you aside? What use did he have for you if not shogi?

But then again, why would he kill Sugawara if he was moments from disposing of you?

“Perhaps it is the fault of my own discipline, for I’ve found it hard to focus on the game for quite some time now.” He hesitated, and you found yourself flinching at the feeling of a soft hand caressing your cheek, leaning into it once you overcame the initial shock of touch. “It is difficult when you have a beautiful woman sitting across from you. It’s even harder when my soul calls for you whenever you're near, drowning out any thoughts I might gather of strategy.”

“Oh.” You weren’t sure what to say, wondering if you should pinch yourself, for many of your dreams centred themselves around such a confession. But the touch had never felt so real before, large fingers brushing against the soft skin of your face.

“I wonder if I’d be more focussed if I admitted fate might make some sense after all. I have never denied myself anything before now, and I’m tired of denying myself you. You have captivated me thoroughly, and I believe the hole in my chest was carved out to allow you to one day settle there.”

The words were by far the most romantic statement anyone had ever uttered to you. In your time as a courtesan you’d heard plenty of cheesy and affectionate lines, ones you’d brush off and forget by the time the client was done with you. Sukuna’s words would burrow into your heart and remain there for as long as you drew breath.

Could anyone fault you for loving a monster who would speak such beauty to you? Could you be hated for finding one who had been cursed by the world just like you had?

“I have no care for the Shogun’s men,” Sukuna continued, “in my eyes they are little more than flies most of the time, an annoying thing to be ignored unless they brush too close. Would it amuse you to know I killed Sugawara out of jealousy? To hear that my chest tightened at the idea of you being taken from my side?”

“Because you enjoy having such a capable rival in intelligence?” You asked, a wry smile creeping onto your face.

“Because I enjoy you.”

It was clear he was waiting for you to say something. The words that had poured from his mouth were unlike any he’d spoken before, and although you couldn’t see him, you could feel the sense of restlessness that gripped his body.

You would not leave him in uncertainty.

“I have only ever seen the world through your eyes,” you confessed shyly, “the only face I see in the endless darkness is yours, and I dream of it every night.” Sukuna’s fingers twitched against your face. “If you’ll have me, I am yours.”

“Even though I’m a monster?” He asked. There was no remorse in his tone, nothing to suggest that he was pained over who he was, it was just an honest question for you to answer as you wished. “You were scared of me when we met. I know you hid yourself from me after discovering our connection, eager to ensure our paths would never cross.”

“Because I believed you would kill me. I thought you to be a man who would stamp out any notion of love and eliminate me along with it.”

He hummed in acknowledgement, failing to deny your statement. You knew it to be true - if you had lost your shogi game on that first meeting, he would’ve done exactly that. It was in his nature to love only that which piqued his interest.

“Especially to be paired with someone so weak, I thought you would consider it an insult.”

He scoffed. “You are far from weak, I’ve found it impossible to best you.”

“I meant physically,” your voice went small. “I did not imagine the King of Curses would favour a sightless woman, nor one so easily broken.”

He was silent for a moment, seemingly processing your words. “I was small and frail once. Perhaps frailer than you. I wish someone had valued me then for my other virtues. I’m big enough and sharp enough to make up for your failings and you are clever enough to cover mine.”

Your mind was reeling at the idea of him admitting to having failings. Your heart stirring at his affection, and his easy desire despite your condition.

“I had not imagined a soulmate to be so well suited to me, for my tangles with fate have always been cruel,” he said. “But you’re something different, something I need at my side, and I will be your eyes, your protector, whatever it is you want in order to keep you there.”

“Oh.” You were positively blushing, whole body trembling beneath the weight of lovely words spoken in that deep voice of his.

Your soulmate wanted you.

A man hated by the world and filled with hatred in return had a space carved out for you, a space for love you hadn’t known him capable of.

You’d loved him from the first time you’d met him, drawn to him by an inexplicable force which seemed to grip him just as hard.

Soulmates really were wonderful.

Silence had settled between the two of you, only broken as the table screeched across the floor, the barrier between you removed. Sukuna shifted forward and an arm came to rest around your smaller body, pulling you towards him. His lips pressed against yours in a kiss you could only describe as sweet.

He didn’t dominate you in the manner you believed a man like him would, instead he took his time, mapping out your lips and drawing you closer to him, letting you bathe in the warmth of his body against yours. It was almost like he was trying not to scare you, aware that you couldn’t see anything he was doing and trying to move slowly as a result.

You wouldn’t have minded either way, your fingers clinging to the biceps of his upper arms, desperate for more of a touch you’d only ever dreamed of.

People always said that to finally touch your soulmate was a euphoria like nothing else, and you truly believed them to be right. Your head felt like it was swimming, chest swelling as if Sukuna’s own soul had wriggled beneath your skin to intertwine with your own.

It was a little overwhelming.

“How I long for you,” he murmured against your ear, breaking the kiss. “I was foolish to have not had you the moment I laid eyes on you, I’ve ached for your touch longer than I care to admit.”

His fingers moved down to your robes, and your breath hitched at the touch. You were no stranger to sex, your job had required it, but the feeling as he undressed you wasn’t like any previous encounter you’d had. What regulars thought of your body was insignificant to you, sex was nothing special with them, just something you had to do if you wished to make a living wage.

This was the first time you’d ever been touched for free by someone you desired, and you felt suddenly nervous at your frail body being judged beneath his crimson gaze - especially when you couldn’t look upon him in the same moment. There was no distraction in the darkness to keep you from worrying about how his gaze might burn through you, imagining discontent on his handsome face.

A cold chill caught you once your robes fell, leaving you kneeling and exposed in front of him. A soft breath fell from his lips, fingers moving delicately from your shoulders down to your breasts, as if checking you were truly real and there before him. More heat flooded you as his finger brushed over your peaked nipple.

“Beautiful. If I didn’t despise the idea of sharing you with another I would paint you like this. Your body is worthy of that reverence.”

“I think my mind is probably more splendid.” You confessed. You had no eyes for awareness of your appearance, and had subsequently never really relied on it. People had said you were lovely, but you could never quite believe it, assuming that they were taking pity on you for your blindness.

“Your mind is exceptional. If I cannot beat you at shogi soon I have half a mind to ask you to assist me with real life strategy,” he said with a chuckle, fingers still trailing a slow path down your body. “But it doesn’t make your body any less lovely, and you cannot deny such things since you’ve never seen yourself. Let me be your eyes and tell you that you are breathtaking.”

A shyness overcame you at those words, head angled downwards as if it would hide your blushing state from him. He raised your chin with a finger, his nose bumping yours before capturing your mouth in a kiss once more, bringing you close against his bare chest. You were so lost in the comfort of the kiss, that you found yourself completely caught off guard when something wet swiped against your stomach and breasts.

Flinching in surprise, you drew yourself back in an attempt to understand what was happening. Sukuna laughed, a hand moving into your hair comfortingly. “It's my tongue,” he spoke easily.

Frowning, you found that his answer didn’t make sense, because still the wet appendage explored your breasts, sending your heartrate flying as it flicked against your nipple with impressive accuracy. How could he be speaking but also doing that?

“There’s a mouth on my stomach. Perhaps you didn’t notice when you controlled my body.”

You were ashamed to admit you hadn’t noticed such a thing. Sukuna had been naked when you’d awoken in his body, and you’d been quick to dress him up in robes, feeling rude to intrude upon the body of another without consent. You’d very intentionally not paid too much attention to the workings of his body, not when the first thing you’d seen was the oddity he sported between his legs.

The memory that he had two of what most men only had one, suddenly had you feeling a little nervous in your position. You had no time to voice such nervousness before he was picking you up, allowing his second tongue to continue its onslaught while he carried you over to the bed, depositing you down upon the silk.

His weight moved on top of you, and he swallowed a gasp with his lips as his monstrous tongue shifted its attention from your breasts down to between your legs, dexterously finding a path between your things and lathering your pussy with attention while Sukuna consumed your mouth. Tears pricked in your eyes at the sensation, unaccustomed to a feeling like that.

In all your years as a courtesan, you’d never been eaten out. Men didn’t come to brothels to serve women, they came to have their own needs attended to, and you’d done that in whichever manner they desired. You were grateful to have never experienced that feeling before, because it was a blessing to have Sukuna be your first.

Pressure built in your stomach over a series of minutes, overwhelmed by the way he seemed to be everywhere. A tongue between your lips, another between your thighs, hands squeezing your breasts, tweaking your nipples, more hands gripping your hips, pulling you up onto his secondary tongue to allow it a better angle to overwhelm you.

For the first time, you started to understand how Sukuna must feel whenever he played you at shogi - stumbling blindly in the dark whilst overcome from all angles with no means of knowing what was going to come next. It was pleasure in its highest form, and you were quick to cum with a yelp of his name, tears dripping from the corners of your eyes.

Sukuna broke the kiss, breathing heavily against your ear. It was a sound you enjoyed, one you could listen to all day if he’d allow you. “I have imagined you beneath me like this every night this week,” he mused, “my imagination is hardly as pleasant as having the real thing. You taste much sweeter than my mind could conjure.”

Again, you were flushing red. “Y-you can taste me through…that?”

“Of course.” You were certain he was grinning, “And I’m glad that I can.” His secondary tongue was still moving slowly through your folds, lapping up the remnants of your first orgasm, teasingly flicking against your clit and making your shudder.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, breathing quietly together. You weren’t sure what Sukuna wanted to do next, but for a moment you were happy to savor the warmth of his heavy body, twitching while he lazily continued his attention to your body. How you longed to see him, eager to witness the expression he was wearing while he attended to you.

All you had to go off was the erratic beating of his heart where his chest was pressed against you.

“Let me have you,” he murmured against your ear. “Let me make you mine.”

“I’m already yours.”

“Is that so? Then let me make it official.”

He shifted atop you, withdrawing his secondary tongue. In the absence of that heat between your thighs, you grew suddenly aware of a heavy pressure against your leg. Your mind jumped to the image of his cocks that you’d filed away in the back of your mind, gut twisting at the thought of either one of them pressing into you.

Sukuna chuckled from above you, a hand coming to stroke your hair. “You’ve seen them, haven’t you?”

You nodded.

“I can tell, you’ve got that scared little look on your face. It’s fascinating, when you play shogi you’re unreadable, but outside of that? You’re practically an open book with your emotions always written across your face.”

Pouting, you let humiliation wash over you. Nobody had ever told you that before. It was hard to guard one's emotions when you had no measure of how the faces of others looked. That was something you’d have to work on. At least you had the good sense to give nothing away when you played shogi.

Another laugh echoed from his lips. “Even now I can see your panic. It’s very endearing.”

Any protest or response you had for him faded away into the recesses of your brain as he shuffled on top of you. He maneuvered you carefully into a new position, raising your legs and placing them up atop his broad shoulders. You were grateful for your flexibility in that moment, because the size difference between the two of you made that no easy task.

Sukuna was watching you from above while he positioned one of his cocks between your legs, running it steadily through your wet folds in a way that had you shivering with desire, still not fully recovered from the actions of his tongue. You were quick to discover that his focus was on his lower cock, as the upper one bumped pleasurably against your clit.

“You know,” he mused, stilling his movements. “I’m surprised you struck no deal with me. It is what I had imagined you would do.”

“What?”

“I’d assumed I would ask for more and you would refuse me. I’d thought your respect was tied to shogi, that you would refuse anything from me unless I was capable of beating you.” Your mind moved to Sugawara as you connected the dots. Sukuna believed you’d made that deal before, as if that tiresome Official hadn’t dictated those rules of his own choosing.

Shogi was a game you adored, mainly because it was an activity you could excel at even without sight, unlike many other courtesan pastimes such as painting, which would forever be an impossibility for you. But it was by no means something you made all your decisions on, nor were you particularly interested in the skill of others.

If someone could defeat you, you would congratulate them for their win and move on, it would ultimately mean little.

To you, it was little more than a game. To various men, it seemed to be something held in much higher regard - a true mark of intelligence rather than a game for which one could learn and remember strategies to allow them a win.

It mattered little to you whether Sukuna could defeat you or not. Your affection for him wasn’t tied to it in any manner.

“To make such a demand would be wasting my own time. Why would I turn down a man I desire over something so trivial? Besides, my bet with Sugawara was made to ensure I never had to lay with him, that is not the fate I want for us.”

“So you believe I am incapable of winning?” He asked, with greater disappointment than you’d been expecting.

“I do,” you said with a giggle, “just as I am incapable of emerging victorious in a battle. We all have our strengths.”

A yelp fell from you as he pushed the tip of his cock into you, catching you unawares. “Yeah?” He asked, pressing deeper into you, his fingers tangling tightly into your hair. “Rather sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

You couldn’t help but laugh again - even in the midst of the dull pain of him driving into you, there was something so endearingly pathetic about his words.

“I am. But you’re free to challenge me whenever you like.”

He was silent as he bottomed out inside of you, his face falling to your neck and leaving a trail of kisses and bites along your skin while he allowed you some time to adjust. You were grateful for his consideration of your wellbeing, fingers digging into his skin, your gut aching as he leaned forwards over you, pushing your legs higher on his shoulders.

There was no question that he was the largest man you’d ever had inside you, practically tearing you apart with his intrusion, but after a few minutes of stillness you found yourself able to relax, the panic exhibited by your body slowly dissipating as you accommodated his size.

“I will challenge you whenever I like,” he whispered against your ear. “After this, the cloud of lust you’ve placed in my mind will be thinner, and I will beat you with ease.”

“Oh, I’m sure-”

Your snarky response was promptly cut off as he withdrew himself from you, only to swiftly fill you up once more, pulling a desperate cry of his name from your lips. There was no second adjustment period given, instead you found yourself clinging on for dear life as he filled you over and over again with swift and deep thrusts that had your eyes rolling back.

One of his hands moved to your stomach, pressing down against the bulge where his cock would press up inside you. It was clear he was fascinated by it, finding great enjoyment in you being claimed by him. You were certain he was no virgin, but it seemed that you were the first woman who meant something to him, the first one who was worth something beyond carnal pleasure.

Legs quivering beneath the weight of his thrusts, you appreciated the way two of his hands came to rest on your thighs, keeping you steady with each brutal snap of his hips. You were crying and whining, your hands blindly reaching for him but finding him just out of range in this position. Seemingly to appease you, he leant further forward, really testing the flexibility of your legs as he practically folded you in half.

Lips pressed against your forehead affectionately, and you enjoyed every single second of his attention, mind floating off on a cloud as your gut tightened with each careful stroke, your walls flexing around his cock. Your whole body felt like it was on fire, a feeling only heightened by the erratic contact of his higher cock rubbing up against your clit.

“You feel so good, fuck. I can’t last like this,” he grumbled, never losing pace. It stroked your ego to know of his desire, to understand just how much he’d been holding back since your first meeting. It was everything you imagined the joining of two soulmates would be - desperately euphoric and overflowing with pleasure.

Sex had never felt so good, it had never really felt good at all, and yet you could spend eternity with Sukuna buried inside of you, your bodies and souls joined just as they were always meant to be.

He was yours and you were his. It was just as fate had decreed.

There was nothing stopping the scream that ripped through you as you finally teetered over the edge, your body convulsing in pleasure and clamping down on Sukuna’s thick cock, eager to milk him for all he was worth. You were sobbing his name and writhing against the silk sheets, your hands gripping them desperately in an attempt to anchor yourself to something in the throes of pleasure.

Sukuna couldn’t hold on long after that either, spilling into you with a warmth that only heightened your pleasure. His other cock found its release at the same time, cum dripping down onto your stomach in a manner that you’d usually find disgusting, if it weren’t your soulmate who was doing it to you. He groaned your name quietly, and let your legs fall from his shoulders.

Without the barrier of your thighs, he settled himself down on top of you, pressing kisses all over your face, his cock still twitching inside your exhausted pussy. You let him lather you with affection, still trying to come to terms with this side of Sukuna. It had been what you’d wanted, what you believed he was capable of, but you hadn’t dreamed it would truly happen.

The most you believed you’d get from him was a lifetime of shogi matches, in which the two of you would remain close but never cross the line you’d been so desperate to leap across.

“Has the fog of lust lifted?” You teased. “Do you believe now you can defeat me?”

Sukuna let out a low, rumbling chuckle. “Perhaps we will have to do that a few more times for it to fully ease.”

“Oh is that so?” You giggled, reaching out for his hair. He gripped your wrist and moved it into position, allowing you to play with the soft locks you’d been so eager to touch since the first time you’d seen them upon his head.

You wished you could gaze upon that lovely shade of pink once more, but it was enough to know he was there before you, yours to touch as you pleased.

“Mmm, I think it would help,” he purred.

“I’m sure that can be arranged.”

You’d give him whatever he wanted. You were his and he was yours for as long as he’d have you.

a/n: I had so much fun writing this one! thinking about doing one soulmate au for each of the jjk men because I find them so enjoyable to play with <3

anyway, for any crazy in love fans, the next chapter will be out towards the end of this week!

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