★ eddy ☆

The marriage had been arranged years ago, a political offering from a quiet village tucked between misty hills and rice fields. You had not come to him willingly, not with blushing cheeks and lowered lashes like the nobles had expected. No, you had arrived with your chin lifted, your eyes full of stormlight, and your hands stained with paint instead of prayer.

You were no sorcerer. No noblewoman trained to bow prettily and obey. You had been a painter’s daughter, a village girl with a gift for turning blank silk into dreamscapes and paper screens into gardens that never wilted.

And somehow, after all the negotiations, offerings, threats, and trembling agreements, you had become the wife of the King of Curses.

His queen.

His greatest treasure.

His greatest headache.

You could not stand him.

At least, that was what you told anyone foolish enough to ask.

You could not stand how large he was, how heavily his presence filled every room, how his footsteps made servants stiffen and candles tremble. You could not stand the way he always found you, no matter where you hid. You could not stand how he leaned over your shoulder while you painted, how he tried to kiss your cheek while you mixed pigments, how one of his hands would always find your waist as if your body belonged there beneath his palm.

Most of all, you could not stand how much he enjoyed irritating you.

“You are frowning again,” Sukuna once murmured, his mouth near your temple.

You were sitting by the open lattice doors of your private chamber, sleeves tied back, hair loosely pinned, a brush between your fingers. Before you stretched a silk canvas washed with pale blue—morning mist over distant mountains, almost finished before his shadow fell over it.

You stopped mid-stroke.

Slowly, you turned your head and glared up at him.

“And you are breathing again,” you said. “Yet I suffer in silence.”

One of his mouths curled.

The other smiled outright.

“You call this silence?”

“I call this restraint.”

Sukuna lowered himself behind you with terrible ease for a creature of his size, all broad shoulders, inked skin, sharp teeth, and royal arrogance. Four arms folded around nothing, though you could tell he was resisting the urge to touch you. He was always resisting the urge to touch you.

Barely.

“You have ignored me all morning,” he said.

“I was happy all morning.”

“You wound me.”

“You will heal.”

He laughed under his breath.

It was a low, dark sound, one that made lesser beings turn pale and pray. To you, it was only an annoyance—warm and too close against the side of your neck.

You dabbed your brush into a dish of watered ink.

“Move.”

“No.”

“You are in my light.”

“The sun is there.”

“You are enormous. You are in all light.”

That made him grin, pleased in the most irritating way.

“You flatter me, wife.”

“I insult you, husband. Your skull must be full of pebbles if you cannot tell the difference.”

A deep, fond rumble moved through his chest.

Then, predictably, Sukuna leaned down and pressed his mouth to your shoulder.

You groaned so dramatically that one of the servant girls outside the door startled.

“Sukuna.”

“Hm?”

“You are far too affectionate for a four-armed monster.”

His lips lingered against your skin.

“And yet you married me.”

“I was traded like a decorative vase.”

“A very loud vase.”

You twisted around and jabbed the wooden end of your brush against his chest. It left a small smear of blue pigment over one of his black markings.

“Do not mock me in my own chambers.”

“These chambers are in my estate.”

“Everything is always yours, yes, yes, the estate, the throne, the tribute, the roads, the mountains, the moon.” You turned back to your painting with a huff. “How exhausting it must be to own everything and still have no manners.”

Sukuna was quiet for a moment.

Then one of his hands reached, his fingers brushing a loose curl from your shoulder.

“You are mine too.”

Your brush paused.

It was always like that with him. Arrogant, possessive, unbearable—and then soft in a way that made your ribs ache. He said things like that with all the certainty of a god who had carved the world open and chosen you from the ruins.

You hated how your face warmed.

So you scoffed.

“Unfortunately.”

He chuckled again and leaned closer, clearly intending to kiss your cheek.

You lifted your hand without looking and pressed two paint-stained fingers over his mouth.

“No.”

His eyes narrowed, amused.

“No?”

“You are bothering me.”

“I am admiring you.”

“You breathe too loudly to admire quietly.”

“You used to be more frightened of me.”

“You used to be less clingy.”

That made him pause.

Only slightly.

Then Sukuna straightened, all four arms shifting as he stood. His expression flattened into something grumbling and wounded, though only you would ever have dared call it that.

“Fine,” he said. “I will leave you to your little mountains and your misery.”

He turned.

You watched him take exactly three steps toward the door.

The chamber suddenly felt too empty.

Not lonely.

Of course not.

You were not lonely. You loved being left alone. You desired solitude the way flowers desired rain. You were peaceful without him looming over you like a smug thundercloud.

Still.

Your brush hovered uselessly over the silk.

You sighed, loud and irritated.

“Fine.”

Sukuna stopped.

You could see the grin beginning before he even turned around.

“You may stay,” you said sharply. “But you are not to breathe down my neck. You are not to kiss me. You are not to touch anything. You are not to make suggestions. You are not to ask what I am painting before I am done. You may sit over there and watch quietly like a civilized beast.”

He turned back to face you, satisfaction gleaming in his red eyes.

“A civilized beast.”

“Barely.”

“And if I disobey?”

“I will paint your face while you sleep.”

“I do not sleep deeply enough for that.”

“I will find a way.”

Sukuna returned without hesitation and sat near the wall, folding himself down with the grand patience of a predator pretending not to hunt. His robes pooled darkly around him. His lower pair of arms rested across his lap, while the upper pair folded over his chest.

He watched you.

Silent.

Still.

Utterly enthralled.

And though you refused to admit it, your brush moved more easily when he was there.

Not because you liked him.

No.

Absolutely not.

It was simply easier to paint when the most dangerous creature in the world sat at your feet as if your smallest sigh could command him.

That was all.

Nothing more.

Certainly nothing tender.

Certainly nothing dangerously close to love.

⸻

The estate learned very quickly that the queen was not delicate.

Beautiful, yes. Beloved by their lord, terrifyingly so. Draped in fine robes and jewels, given every luxury the treasury could provide, seated beside the King of Curses as though she had been born from moonlight and command.

But delicate?

No.

The queen had once chased a courtier out of the eastern hall with a wet brush because he had called one of her paintings “pleasant.”

Pleasant, apparently, was an insult worthy of violence.

Another time, she had ordered three servants to rearrange the same vase of plum branches eleven times before declaring the original position had been correct and everyone involved lacked vision.

Sukuna had watched the entire ordeal with his chin in one hand, smiling dreamily.

Uraume had not smiled once.

Uraume had served Lord Sukuna long enough to withstand bloodshed, curses, war, dismemberment, executions, storms, sorcerers, poison, betrayal, and the occasional body being thrown through a wall.

But the Lady of the estate in a creative mood was another matter entirely.

One afternoon, Uraume approached Sukuna in the main hall while he lounged upon his great seat, listening with half-interest as two trembling men argued over tribute rights.

“My lord,” Uraume said, kneeling.

Sukuna lifted one hand.

The arguing men went silent at once.

“What is it?”

Uraume’s pale expression remained perfectly controlled.

“The Lady is in quite the mood today.”

Sukuna’s attention sharpened immediately.

His upper eyes narrowed. His lower eyes brightened with interest.

“What kind of mood?”

“The dangerous kind.”

“The interesting kind, then.”

Uraume paused.

“She threw paint on a servant.”

The hall went still.

The trembling men looked as if they wished to vanish into the polished floor.

Sukuna blinked.

Then leaned forward slightly.

“Why?”

“They interrupted her when she was, according to the Lady, ‘inspired.’”

A slow, delighted smile spread across Sukuna’s face.

“She was inspired?”

Uraume’s mouth tightened.

“The servant is now blue.”

A deep laugh rumbled out of him.

The men before the throne flinched as if it were thunder. Sukuna looked almost proud, his sharp teeth flashing, one elbow resting on his knee.

“What did the fool expect, interrupting inspiration?”

“My lord,” Uraume said carefully, “the servant was bringing her tea.”

“Then they should have brought it less stupidly.”

Before Uraume could respond, another servant hurried into the hall, bowing so low his forehead nearly touched the floor.

“Lord Sukuna,” he said, voice shaking, “forgive me, but the Lady is going crazy.”

The temperature in the hall dropped.

Not because of Uraume.

Because Sukuna’s smile vanished.

The servant froze.

Sukuna slowly turned his head.

“What did you say?”

The servant began to tremble violently.

“I—I only meant—”

“Everyone in this estate is going crazy,” Sukuna said, voice low and lethal. “My queen is the only normal perfection under this roof.”

Silence.

Heavy, suffocating silence.

Then Sukuna waved one hand as if the matter bored him.

“Leave.”

The servant nearly tripped over himself escaping.

The two men who had come to argue tribute looked pale enough to be ghosts.

Uraume stayed where they were, head bowed, expression unreadable.

Sukuna rose from his seat.

“I will handle her.”

Uraume said nothing, though the faintest glimmer of doubt crossed their face.

Sukuna noticed.

His eyes narrowed.

“What?”

“My lord,” Uraume said calmly, “forgive me, but the Lady rarely allows herself to be handled.”

Sukuna’s expression shifted.

Not anger.

Something worse.

Fondness.

“She allows me.”

Uraume lowered their gaze.

Barely.

The servants watched him leave the hall with the unmistakable, terrible realization that their Lord Ryomen Sukuna—the King of Curses, the beast of legend, the monster to whom clans offered daughters and gold and prayers for mercy—

had hearts in his eyes for his deranged wife.

And worse.

He seemed entirely pleased about it.

⸻

You were furious when Sukuna entered your chambers.

That was not unusual.

You were often furious when Sukuna entered your chambers.

Sometimes because he had interrupted you. Sometimes because he had not visited soon enough, though you would rather have swallowed glass than admit that. Sometimes because he spoke. Sometimes because he remained silent in a way that made you aware of him.

Today, you were standing before a long stretch of silk pinned against the wall, your sleeves rolled, your hair falling out of its pins, your cheek smeared with red pigment.

At your feet lay bowls of crushed minerals, flower dyes, soot, powdered shells, and several discarded brushes.

The floor looked like a battlefield.

Sukuna stepped inside and surveyed the damage with open admiration.

“My queen.”

You jerked around and groaned.

Loudly.

With your entire soul.

“No.”

Sukuna stopped.

“I have said one thing.”

“You have ruined everything.”

“I opened the door.”

“You opened the door with the aura of a walking execution and made me lose my inspiration.”

His brows lifted.

“Did I?”

“Yes.” You threw your brush onto a cloth. “Now I may as well use my blood to paint, because no one in this cursed estate can give me a decent red color.”

Sukuna’s gaze moved to the red on your cheek.

Then your hands.

Then the half-finished painting.

It was not mountains today. Not flowers. Not the soft village scenes you sometimes painted when you thought he was not looking.

It was him.

Not plainly. Never plainly.

It was a storm given shape, a shrine shadowed beneath a red sky, four dark arms emerging from smoke and silk, eyes like open wounds in the heavens. Beautiful and violent. Sacred and damned.

Sukuna stared.

Something in his expression softened so quickly that you had to look away.

“Do not look at it.”

“It is me.”

“It is a storm.”

“It is me.”

“You are very arrogant.”

“You painted me with four arms.”

“I paint many hideous things.”

“And red eyes.”

“Many hideous things have red eyes.”

“And my markings.”

“I was unfortunate enough to remember them.”

His mouth twitched.

He stepped closer.

You pointed a stained finger at him.

“If you touch me, I will scream.”

“You scream often.”

“I will scream differently.”

“You promise?”

“Sukuna.”

He laughed, low and pleased, but stopped close enough that his warmth reached you. He smelled faintly of smoke, iron, and expensive incense. You hated that you knew that. You hated that some traitorous part of you relaxed when he was near.

You crossed your arms.

“I told Uraume not to send anyone in.”

“They told me.”

“And yet here you are.”

“I am not anyone.”

“No. You are worse.”

“Worse?”

“You require more space.”

His grin sharpened.

“I have heard no complaints.”

“Then your hearing is as poor as your manners.”

Sukuna bent slightly, bringing his face closer to yours. Even after years of marriage, his size should have frightened you. It did, sometimes, in a distant and sensible part of your mind. But fear had long ago become tangled with familiarity, and familiarity had become tangled with something warmer.

Something dangerous.

Something with teeth.

“You are in a foul mood,” he murmured.

“I am in an artistic mood.”

“You threw paint at a servant.”

“They walked into my inspiration.”

“With tea.”

“They should have known better.”

“They should have,” Sukuna agreed immediately.

Your eyes narrowed.

“Do not agree with me just because you think I am pretty.”

“I think you are more than pretty.”

“Do not.”

“You are unbearable.”

“That is better.”

“Difficult.”

“Yes.”

“Violent.”

“Only when provoked.”

“Brilliant.”

Your mouth closed.

Sukuna watched you, amusement softening around the edges.

“My impossible wife,” he said.

Your face warmed.

How dare he.

You turned away at once and snatched up another brush.

“I am busy.”

“You are blushing.”

“I am overheated because this estate is full of fools.”

“It is winter.”

“Then I am angry.”

“You are always angry.”

“And yet you continue speaking.”

He moved behind you, but this time, he did not touch. He stood close, though, close enough that one of his shadows fell beside yours across the painted silk.

You tried to ignore him.

You truly did.

But Sukuna was impossible to ignore. He occupied a room the way fire occupied dry wood. Even standing silently, he was too much—too large, too warm, too alive, too focused on you.

Your brush hovered over the painting.

His voice came quieter.

“The red is wrong.”

You stiffened.

Slowly, murderously, you turned your head.

“What did I say about suggestions?”

“That I was not to make them.”

“And yet?”

“That was an observation.”

You stared at him.

He stared back, entirely unrepentant.

Then he lifted one hand, palm upward. Resting there was a small lacquered container.

You glanced at it.

“What is that?”

“A pigment from the southern merchants.”

Your suspicion sharpened.

“When did you get that?”

“When I heard you complaining three days ago.”

“I complain often.”

“I listen often.”

That silenced you more effectively than any threat ever could have.

Sukuna opened the container.

Inside was red.

Not the dull rust-red the servants had brought. Not the too-bright flower dye that dried pink. This was rich, deep, terrible red—the color of pomegranate flesh, temple gates at sunset, fresh blood on white snow.

Your breath caught before you could stop it.

Sukuna noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He always noticed.

You reached for the container, but he lifted it just out of your grasp.

Your eyes snapped up.

“Sukuna.”

He smiled.

“Ask nicely.”

“I will bite you.”

“You do that when pleased too.”

You gasped.

“Sukuna.”

He laughed and lowered the pigment into your hands.

You clutched it close, scowling down at it as if it had personally offended you by making you happy.

“This is acceptable,” you muttered.

“Only acceptable?”

“It may keep me from opening my wrist for color.”

His eyes darkened.

“Do not joke about spilling your blood.”

The command in his voice made your spine straighten.

There he was.

The king.

The monster.

The husband who let you insult him endlessly but turned cold at the thought of your pain.

You looked up at him.

For once, your voice softened.

“I was not going to.”

“I know.”

“Then stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you will burn the world because I made a dramatic comment.”

“I have burned more for less.”

Your chest tightened.

How absurd he was. How terrifying. How devoted in a way that made no sense at all.

You clicked your tongue and turned back to your painting.

“Sit down.”

His expression shifted.

“Sit?”

“Yes. You are brooding too loudly.”

“You want me to stay?”

“I want you to stop hovering.”

“That is not the same.”

“It is the offer you are getting.”

Sukuna sat.

Victorious.

You pretended not to see it.

For the next hour, he watched you paint. You added the red carefully, letting it bleed into the sky behind the shrine, into the eyes hidden in smoke, into the thin lines that made the whole piece breathe. Sukuna said nothing. He only sat there, all four arms relaxed, eyes fixed on you as if watching a miracle unfold.

It made your hands steadier.

It made your heart stupid.

Eventually, you said, “Stop staring at me.”

“I am staring at the painting.”

“You are staring at my face.”

“It is the better view.”

You nearly dropped the brush.

“You are nauseating.”

“You married me.”

“You keep saying that as though I chose it.”

His smile faded, just a little.

You felt it before you saw it.

The air shifted.

Quietly, he said, “No. You did not.”

Your fingers tightened around the brush.

There were things between you that neither of you stepped on carelessly.

The arrangement. The village. The bargain. The day you arrived dressed in wedding silk with fury in your eyes and grief tucked beneath your ribs.

You had not chosen him then.

But years had passed.

And choice, you had learned, was not always a door opened once. Sometimes it was a thousand small doors. A thousand moments where you could tell him to leave and did not. A thousand times he reached for you and stopped when you glared. A thousand evenings where he brought you pigments, fruit, rare paper, silence.

A thousand mornings where you woke in his estate and no longer dreamed of running.

You dipped the brush into the red.

“I choose to let you stay,” you said, not looking at him.

Sukuna said nothing.

But the room warmed.

⸻

By late afternoon, you demanded air.

Not requested.

Demanded.

The servants, still nervous after the paint incident, scrambled to open the garden pathways and bring cushions beneath the persimmon trees. Sukuna walked beside you through the estate grounds, wearing his dark robes and a look of deep satisfaction, as though he had personally invented the sun because you wished to sit under it.

The garden was one of the few places in the estate you genuinely adored.

It had been made after your arrival.

Sukuna claimed it had existed before, but you knew better. The first year of your marriage, you had complained endlessly that the estate was all stone and shadow and blood-colored banners, and that if you had to live among monsters, you should at least have flowers.

Three weeks later, workers arrived.

Now the garden stretched beyond the eastern wing in careful layers of beauty—ponds filled with pale koi, winding stone paths, plum trees, irises, mossy lanterns, and a small pavilion where you often hid with your sketchbooks.

Sukuna thought you did not know it had been built for you.

You did.

You simply enjoyed pretending not to.

You sat beneath a tree while Sukuna lowered himself beside you, massive and regal and absurdly attentive. A tray of fruit rested between you: peeled persimmons, sliced pears, sugared plums, pomegranate seeds gleaming like little jewels.

You picked up a pear slice.

Sukuna took it from your fingers.

You glared.

He lifted it to your mouth.

“I am not a child.”

“You forgot to eat.”

“I was busy.”

“You were threatening to use your blood as pigment.”

“As an artistic possibility.”

“As stupidity.”

Your eyes widened.

“Did you just call me stupid?”

“No. I called the idea stupid.”

“I am full of ideas.”

“Painfully aware.”

You opened your mouth to argue, and he placed the pear slice against your lips.

You bit it from his fingers with unnecessary aggression.

Sukuna smiled.

The fool actually smiled.

You chewed angrily, then pointed toward the estate.

“Your household is incompetent.”

“My household?”

“Yes, yours. I refuse ownership.”

“You are the queen.”

“Not of them.”

“Of everything here.”

“I decline.”

“You cannot decline.”

“I just did.”

Sukuna fed you another piece of fruit, his expression serene.

You accepted it because you were hungry, not because you enjoyed being fussed over.

Obviously.

“The servant this morning,” you continued, “walked in without rhythm.”

Sukuna’s brows lifted.

“Without rhythm.”

“Yes. There is a rhythm to interruption. A soft knock. A pause. A respectful fear. Then entry.”

“A respectful fear.”

“Exactly.”

“I will have Uraume teach a course.”

“You should. And the tea was cold.”

“It was freshly made.”

“It became cold when it offended me.”

“Ah.”

“And the red pigments were embarrassing. Embarrassing, Sukuna. I am married to the King of Curses, and I cannot get a red that does not dry like old clay? What is the point of tyranny if not access to good materials?”

He nodded gravely.

“You are right.”

“I know I am right.” You took a pomegranate seed from his palm. “And the western hall smells like damp wood.”

“I will have it fixed.”

“And one of the maids moved my brushes.”

“I will have her executed.”

You paused.

“Sukuna.”

He smirked.

“Dismissed?”

“Do not be dramatic.”

“You threatened your own veins over paint.”

“That was art.”

“My mistake.”

You huffed and leaned back against the tree, your robes pooling around you in soft layers. Sunlight slipped through the leaves, dappling your skin and the curve of your cheek. Sukuna watched the light touch you with quiet reverence.

You noticed.

Of course you noticed.

“Stop looking at me like I am some holy thing.”

“You are.”

“I am not.”

“You are to me.”

You stared at him.

Your annoyance faltered.

Sukuna held another piece of fruit near your mouth, but his expression had gone softer again. Not weak. Never weak. But open in a way reserved only for you.

It was terribly inconvenient, being loved by a monster.

Especially one who meant it.

You leaned forward and took the fruit, slower this time.

Then you looked away.

“I need to paint outside more.”

Sukuna blinked.

You sat upright suddenly, struck by the thought as if lightning had landed in your lap.

“I need to paint outside more,” you repeated. “Why have I been painting indoors like some miserable old widow?”

Sukuna’s mouth opened.

You turned on him.

“Why did you not give me that idea?”

He stared.

“I was unaware I controlled your inspiration.”

“You should have suggested it.”

“You told me never to make suggestions.”

“That was inside.”

“How foolish of me.”

“You are useless.”

“Yes,” he said immediately.

Your brows pulled together.

“Do not agree so quickly.”

“You said I am useless.”

“You are supposed to argue.”

“You dislike when I argue.”

“I dislike when you do anything incorrectly.”

“And breathing?”

“Frequently incorrect.”

His grin returned, slow and sharp.

You pouted.

Genuinely pouted.

It was ridiculous and soft and devastating, and Sukuna looked at you as though you had just handed him the moon.

“You are laughing at me,” you accused.

“I would not dare.”

“You are doing it with your eyes.”

“I have four. Hard to control all of them.”

You narrowed your gaze.

Then, before he could make another smug remark, you leaned forward and kissed him.

It was brief.

A press of your mouth to his.

Warm. Sudden. Sweet enough to ruin him.

Sukuna went completely still.

Every servant within sight immediately found something else to look at.

You pulled back as if nothing had happened and picked up a plum.

“Anyway,” you said, “the garden is acceptable, but there are not enough red flowers.”

Sukuna remained frozen for half a breath longer.

Then his hand slowly lifted to his mouth, touching where you had kissed him.

His eyes had gone molten.

Utterly ruined.

You ignored it.

“There should be more,” you continued, warming to your rant. “Not roses. Everyone chooses roses because they lack imagination. I want spider lilies. And camellias. And perhaps poppies, though I do not trust the gardeners to understand the shade I mean. They will bring me something orange and call it red, and then I will be forced to become cruel.”

“You are already cruel,” Sukuna murmured.

You gasped.

He leaned closer, smiling.

“To everyone but me.”

“I am cruel to you constantly.”

“No.” His voice lowered. “You are gentle with me in your own terrible way.”

You looked at him.

The garden rustled around you, leaves whispering overhead, koi shifting beneath the pond’s glassy surface. For a moment, you did not know what to say.

So naturally, you scowled.

“You are becoming sentimental. I hate that.”

“I know.”

“It makes you look foolish.”

“I know.”

“You should be embarrassed.”

“I am not.”

“You should be.”

“I am loved by my queen,” he said, gaze fixed on you. “Why would I be embarrassed?”

Your lips parted.

The nerve of him.

The sheer, towering, monstrous nerve.

“I did not say I love you.”

“You kissed me.”

“I was silencing you.”

“You kissed me.”

“You were being smug.”

“You kissed me.”

You grabbed a pomegranate seed and threw it at his chest.

It bounced harmlessly off him.

Sukuna looked down at it, then back at you.

“Violent little thing.”

“Clingy monster.”

“Brat.”

“Beast.”

“Wife.”

The word slipped between you like a hand at the small of your back.

Your glare softened before you could stop it.

Sukuna reached out—not quickly, not assuming. He touched your chin with two fingers, giving you every chance to pull away.

You did not.

He tilted your face toward him.

“You may paint outside tomorrow,” he said. “I will have the servants bring screens, silk, pigments, water, and fruit.”

“I did not ask permission.”

“I did not give permission. I gave resources.”

You considered this.

Acceptable.

“And you will not hover.”

“I will sit nearby.”

“Far nearby.”

“Nearby.”

“Sukuna.”

“Y/n.”

You hated when he said your name like that.

Like a vow.

Like a prayer.

Like even the gods would have to fight him for it.

You sighed dramatically and leaned back against the tree.

“Fine. You may sit nearby. But if you interrupt my inspiration, I will paint you green.”

His eyes glinted.

“Would I still be handsome?”

You rolled your eyes.

“You are impossible.”

“Would I?”

“You are fishing for compliments like a pathetic river man.”

“Answer.”

“No.”

His grin widened.

You lasted three seconds.

Then, with a mutter full of suffering, you said, “You would still be handsome.”

Sukuna looked entirely too pleased.

“Say it again.”

“I will not.”

“Once more.”

“I would rather swallow paint.”

He leaned down, one hand braced beside your hip, another resting behind you against the tree, caging you in without truly trapping you.

“You think I am handsome.”

“You are large. That is different.”

“And handsome.”

“And loud.”

“And handsome.”

“And annoying.”

“And handsome.”

“And handsome,” you snapped, cheeks hot. “There. Are you pleased now?”

His smile was wicked.

“Yes.”

“You are insufferable.”

“You adore me.”

“I tolerate you.”

“You kiss me.”

“To shut you up.”

“Do it again. I am speaking.”

You stared at him.

Then, despite yourself, you laughed.

It startled you more than it startled him—a real laugh, bright and unwilling, slipping out before you could bury it. Sukuna’s face changed when he heard it. Softened. Opened. As if your laughter had struck him in some ancient, unarmored place.

You hated that too.

Or you wanted to hate it.

Instead, you reached up, grabbed the front of his robes, and pulled him down.

This kiss was not as brief.

Sukuna was careful with you, always careful in the moments that mattered. For all his arrogance, for all his monstrous strength, his mouth moved over yours with a patience that made your chest ache. One hand cupped the back of your head. Another settled at your waist. The others remained braced, holding himself back, as if loving you required restraint more than conquest.

When you pulled away, he followed slightly.

You pressed a hand to his chest.

“No more. I am still irritated.”

“Of course.”

“And I still need better flowers.”

“You will have them.”

“And an outdoor painting pavilion.”

“You will have it.”

“And no one is allowed to interrupt me unless there is fire, war, or you have died.”

“If I die, I will return before interrupting you.”

“Good.”

He looked at you with that hopeless, smitten expression again.

You frowned.

“What now?”

“Nothing.”

“You look stupid.”

“I am happy.”

“Same thing.”

Sukuna laughed softly and settled beside you once more, feeding you another piece of fruit while you began ranting again—about pigments, servants, flowers, light, damp halls, boring court ladies, and how if one more person called your work pleasant, you would personally haunt their bloodline.

He listened to every word.

Nodded at all the right places.

Agreed when you insulted him.

Disagreed only when you called yourself unreasonable.

And when the sun sank lower, turning the garden gold, you leaned against his side as if it were an accident. As if your body had simply forgotten its own defiance.

Sukuna did not mention it.

He only adjusted one arm around you, quiet and careful, letting you pretend.

Because he knew you.

He knew your sharp edges were only doors with difficult locks. He knew your temper hid tenderness. He knew your solitude was sacred, not empty. He knew you loved in mutters, in insults, in sighs that became invitations, in kisses thrown like accusations.

And you knew him too.

You knew the King of Curses could level cities, but sat still for hours just to watch you paint.

You knew his hands had ended bloodlines, but peeled fruit for you in the garden.

You knew he was a monster.

Your monster.

Your husband.

Your ridiculous, affectionate, four-armed nuisance of a husband.

So when he pressed a kiss to the top of your head, you groaned as if deeply burdened.

“Sukuna.”

“Hm?”

“You are bothering me again.”

His thumb stroked once over your waist.

“Do you want me to stop?”

You stared out at the garden, lips pursed, trying very hard not to smile.

A moment passed.

Then another.

Finally, you sighed.

“No.”

Sukuna’s smile curved against your hair.

You pointed toward the far side of the garden.

“But tomorrow, I want spider lilies planted there.”

“It will be done.”

“And if they are the wrong red, I will blame you.”

“Of course.”

“And if you hover while I paint, I will throw something.”

“I look forward to it.”

You turned your head and glared at him.

He looked back at you like you had hung the stars.

Disgusting.

Wonderful.

Impossible.

You settled more comfortably against him.

“Useless beast,” you muttered.

Sukuna held you closer.

“My perfect queen,” he murmured.

And for once, beneath the persimmon tree, with fruit sweet on your tongue and his warmth at your side, you did not argue.

Not because he was right.

Certainly not.

You were simply tired.

And the garden was lovely.

And his arms, though monstrous, were warm.

And tomorrow, you would paint outside.