heian era! sukuna x concubine! reader
summary - every year, your village performs a tradition of sacrificing one human life to the king of curses, ryomen sukuna. this year, that life is yours. you were meant to be left to die, but instead, you're carried to his palace, wrapped in silk, and forced to be his concubine. what starts out as a blood sacrifice turns into a binding tether to the man who was meant to take your life.
contents/warnings for this chapter - sacrificial ritual, detailed blood/violence, true form sukuna
author's note - this is my first fic!!! had this idea so i thought i'd write it. the smut will be in much LATER chapters. just wanted to upload what i have for now. please be kind! any and all commentary is appreciated.
The hardened wax clings to your skin like a vice, a harsh reminder of your current situation, cracking with every movement you can barely do. You can feel the sting of the burns all over your body, tight ropes digging into your wrists and ankles, tied carelessly. A damp cloth is wrapped around your eyes, stained with something that reeks of sweat and metal, blocking your vision.
The village of Shinonomori is surrounded by dark, lush forests. Flowers bloom in the sparse clearings, their spines straining for the sliver of sun that rarely shines. Vines crawl over bark and stone, twisting and curling in shapes and patterns so intricate you’d think perhaps God swooped down to arrange it himself.
The trees stand tall and proud, creating a wall of mahogany and maple around the village, almost like a cage shield.
Legends say that the forest is filled with cursed spirits. Some people claim they can feel their presence.
Children are raised being warned to avoid the forest with the cliché “whoever dares to go in doesn’t return” phrase to scare them.
While definitely cliché, it’s not entirely untrue.
In Shinonomori, everyone has a duty, a role to play—whether it’s farming, mending, healing, smithing, or bookkeeping—in the village. However, the pride and joy of all Shinonomori residents is their agriculture.
Most of the land is tilled to cater to different types of crops and vegetation, making their often surplus of crops overfill stands in markets, which are usually bustling with people, especially around Harvest Day.
Due to the hard conditions of the village that have been unchanging for many generations, it seems miraculous that they have such abundant farms. So, if they live in such a cursed area, how are they so successful?
The villagers, ever superstitious, believe that the King of Curses, Ryomen Sukuna, is warding off the curses that threaten to consume the village and their farms himself.
Given their beliefs and deep-rooted fear of the curses that reside in the forests—born from generations of sacrifices and negative energy—every year, they select one person from the village to sacrifice to him on Harvest Day, believing that this will continue to protect them until next time.
You’re one of the bookkeepers of Shinonomori; you spend your days assisting customers, dusting shelves, or reading to pass time. You’re just opening the library for the day, the early morning sun reflecting through the little circular window above the wooden door. You push the door open with some effort—it’s old and pretty rickety, the wood is splintering—and use your foot to nudge a small stone underneath to keep it open.
You mutter a curse under your breath when you look down, noticing your well-worn flats starting to rip at the toe. There should be a few needles and some leftover thread inside from the last time you had to repair them.
Turning back inside, you walk past the shelves with books galore, some old with near-frayed spines, others with hard leather covers with a slight sheen. Their golden-brown pages are pressed together between the rough material and sewed in place with thick string and needles—similar to the ones you’re currently searching for.
You make your way through the old library, moving through the familiar aisles and hallways with ease. You fan your hand back and forth in front of you, trying to disperse the dust in the air that sticks to your hair and gathers on the stone walls, which are now growing bits of moss in the cracks.
The wooden floor is faded and creaks every other step before you reach the door to the stairwell at the end of the short hallway. You open the pale wooden door and step inside, the sound of your light footsteps echoing softly in the cylindrical room as you ascend to the top floor, where your small apartment is.
This building—both the library and apartment—was passed down to you from your late parents. They passed away around seven years ago when you were just 17, but you’ve made a living for yourself as a bookkeeper since then.
You find the sewing supplies exactly where you usually leave them: in a drawer that doesn’t fully close in your desk.
“Ah, here we go,” you mutter to yourself, sinking down to the floor and propping your foot up to slip your shoe off.
Threading the needle, you carefully weave it in and out of the fabric until the holes seemingly disappear, the motion almost rhythmic.
Satisfied with your repairs, the needle and thread find themselves wrapped around each other and tucked back into the drawer, the soft thud breaking the silence.
You make your way back downstairs and begin your daily tasks: reshelving books, getting rid of the endless dust that seems to consume the whole room, and other things that may need tending to, such as watering the hydrangeas by the entrance or making repairs.
You’re so caught up you almost don’t hear someone enter behind you.
“Ms. Fujikawa Y/N?” they ask, their voice holding a bit of edge that makes your skin tingle.
“Yeah, that’s me,” you say, a bit cautiously, as you turn to face the speaker. It’s an old woman who you recognize as Shibaba.
She’s part of a committee within the village that handles things like events and superstitious practices.
Her expression is blank and unflinching, and you can’t help but feel like whatever she’s here for can’t possibly be good. “Is everything alright?”
“You are aware of what today is, yes?” she asks, the tone of her voice making it clear that your answer to this shouldn’t be anything other than a ‘yes.’
Of course you know what today is.
You never cared for it much since a.) you’re a bookkeeper, not a farmer, b.) you’re not really superstitious, and c.) you hate watching the sacrificing ceremony, it never felt right to you.
“Um… yeah. It’s Harvest Day, right?” you ask, a quizzical look on your face. Your fingers tug at the hem of your dress.
“You need to come with me,” she replies.
What? You’ve never participated in Harvest Day, let alone spoken to anyone from the committee about it. What could she want with you?
You stare at her dumbfounded, hoping for an answer.
“What? Me? Why?” you press on, trying to urge an answer out of her without provoking her to anger.
Her gaze hardens and suddenly, two guards step inside, flanking her from behind. You furrow your brows in confusion, taking an instinctive step back.
Before you can question her further, Shibaba makes a gesture with her hand and the two guards beeline towards you. You step back again, but they reach out and grab you by your upper arms, pulling you towards them.
“Wha—hey! What’s going on? Let go of me!” you protest, tensing up and trying to squirm out of their grip, but they don’t relent.
They drag you out of your library, following Shibaba down the gravel roads towards the edge of town. They didn’t even bother to close the door behind them. Rude, much?
Eventually, you give up on thrashing—they’re just ignoring you and continuing their rough treatment—and begrudgingly allow yourself to be dragged to wherever it is they’re taking you.
The further you go, you notice the pathway is oddly familiar to the one that leads to Sukuna’s altar—where all the sacrifices take place.
Anxiety bubbles up in your chest, your arms tingling and going numb from the guards’ bruising grip.
The edge of the forest and the altar only get closer as they finally enter your field of vision. Heart pounding, palms sweating, the hair on your arms stand up as you look around at the disturbingly eager-looking crowd that surrounds the altar on all sides. The air smells like wax, wood, and burnt sage.
You’re roughly thrown into the middle of the crowd, who back away from you like you’re a curse yourself. Stones dig into your palms, your dress now dusted with dirt.
They start to close in on you, some holding ropes and other holding lit candles. You scramble back, pushing with your hands and feet until your back hits the base of the statue. Sukuna’s stone figure stands above you—tall, arrogant, mocking.
Even his stone carving, a mere imitation of what he’s merely been depicted as in scrolls and paintings, radiates power.
Rough, merciless hands grab you by every limb, shoving you face first into the dirt as you thrash and yell. You feel your wrists and ankles tied tightly by thick, scratchy rope, every fiber digging into your skin, piercing through like needles. A dark cloth is tied around your eyes, blocking your vision completely.
You’ve already begun to understand what’s going on, so you give up the yelling, thrashing, squirming, and protesting. Tears fill your covered eyes, dripping down your cheeks as two people drag you away into the forest.
The crowd watches heartlessly, their eyes glazed over with sadistic pleasure and selfish anticipation. Your “escorters” ignore every grunt of pain you let out as they tug you over the rocky, prickly ground.
Every blade of grass, soft flower petal, or smooth pebble that brushes against your skin contrasts how you’re feeling right now—like there’s an anvil being shoved into your chest, along with impending doom.
Silent tears—the ones that don’t get absorbed by the cloth—roll down your face from under the blindfold and gather at the point of your chin.
After what feels like endless walking, trudging, and dragging, you come to a stop. The ground beneath you feels smoother than the rest of the forest, kind of like flattened dirt and acrid stone.
You can hardly hear the murmured voices of the two men who brought you hear, your ears ringing loudly and your mind going a mile a minute.
The scent of smoke and flames fills the air, staining your lungs from the inside out. The heat gets closer and closer until you’re suddenly being manhandled, and hot, scalding liquid is poured on your skin.
You cry out and hiss in pain, trying to move away only to be roughly pulled back. The liquid on your back and arms hardens like a soft shell and you realize it’s wax. Panting, tears stream down your face freely now.
“Please,” you cry, attempting to plead for mercy a final time. “Please—let me go! I’ll do anything, please!”
But your words fall on deaf ears as you’re shoved around again, feeling like your whole body is on fire, completely helpless to save yourself.
Every nerve ending alight, your skin feeling like it’s falling apart and melting your bones with it. The agonizing pain seems to engulf you whole.
The sacrifice is a blur of fire and distorted, ritualistic chants. Your supplicants wreath you in smoke—you can taste it in the back of your throat, “purifying” you in the most vile manner.
One of them steps forward and lifts your head, using a dagger to slice a shallow cut across your forehead, causing you to nearly simultaneously pass out and throw up from the pain. The blood trickles down in a sickly stream, anointing you.
You’re dropped again, your head falling back against the ground, throbbing pain radiating through your whole being. Your limbs are numb, your hands are trembling, your whole body burns. Your once well-kept appearance is now mussed and unkempt.
You hear the frenzied, desperate voices of your supplicants, invoking Sukuna and pleading with him to take their offer and protect them until next year.
You feel immolated as you hear their rapid footsteps retreat into the woods back towards the village. All you can do is wallow in your misery and anguish. Tears gush out of your eyes like a waterfall of despair, your sobs echoing through the trees.
“Tch. Is this truly what those filthy villagers believe would satisfy me?”
A contemptuous, gravelly voice booms above you. You weakly turn your head towards it and he scoffs.
“Still alive, are you? How pathetic,” he says, the mocking words flowing from his mouth like you’re nothing but a nuisance he’s yet to be rid of. You don’t need to see him to be able to feel the menacing aura that radiates from his very bones.
There’s only one being in existence who would have such a powerful presence, one that feels like it takes up all the crevices of time and space—
You always thought of him as some sort of myth or spiritual being from long ago that your people worshipped blindly, but no, he’s real. Very, very real.
Sukuna looks down at you and uses his foot to nudge your chin up. It’s like he’s disgusted by the mere idea of a mortal, not even willing to touch you with his bare hand.
“I should just throw you with the others. I’m in need of a bit of entertainment. I’ll kill you in the end either way.”
Your heart pounds in your chest, sweat beading on every inch of your body. Chills run up and down your spine, his voice reverberating through the air around you.
“A-Are you- Sukuna..?” you manage to ask, your voice meek and shaky as you struggle to push the words from deep in your throat and off your dry tongue.
You’re tense, every hair on your body sticking up, your hackles raised as you wait for him to make a move and end you right then and there.
“What does it look like?” He’s very obviously mocking your current blind state. You know from the snickering under his breath as he circles you.
Suddenly, he grabs your upper arm and rudely pulls you to stand.
You can’t see it, but his gaze roams over your body, lingering on every place the hardened wax has molded to fit the shape of your limbs. He scoffs under his breath and then you’re being dragged.
“You’re lucky I didn’t just kill you immediately,” he claims. You can’t tell if he’s being serious or not.
He lightly shoves you away from him, but before you can fall, a pair of smaller, more gentle arms catch and steady you. “Uraume, take it. I don’t want to touch the filth.”
Uraume doesn’t reply, but she hoists you over her shoulder like you’re simply a sack of flour, and proceed to keep walking behind the King of Curses.
Sukuna walks ahead, occasionally slashing any lesser-grade curses he comes across.
He’s not entirely sure what made him want to keep you alive, but he’s not one to think about things like that.
He just tells himself–and Uraume–that he’s in need of entertainment back in his palace.
His concubines get repetitive after all, and as the King of Curses, who is he to deny a new one when she’s basically dropped into his lap?
“Master, may I ask a question?” says Uraume, her voice steady and soft. She’s used to Sukuna’s intensity and ruthlessness, but her loyalty to him has undoubtedly earned the great King’s respect.
“What. Go on, ask,” replies Sukuna.
Uraume is the only person he would allow to speak to him without resorting to permanently silencing them when he gets bored of the conversation.
“With all due respect, sir, what shall you do with this girl? Another concubine?”
“I suppose so. I’m growing bored of my other ones.”
“You usually kill your sacrifices immediately.”
“They whine and bitch too much. It’s annoying.”
“Didn’t this one do the same?”
They continued walking in silence before they reached a small clearing in the forest. Sukuna was splattered with the remains of curse guts and blood from all the exorcising he did on their way.
He flicked it off with a wave of his wrist and placed a heavy palm on Uraume’s shoulder that wasn’t carrying you. You had been silent the entire walk, your whole body tense. It’s hard to tell whether you’re in danger or not yet, but you’re not exactly comfortable.
Suddenly, it feels like your body was vaporized, every atom being pulled apart and shoved back together. You feel a bit lightheaded, your wounds starting to throb again.
Sukuna sighs dramatically and walks up to his throne. He teleported the three of you right to the middle of his palace. He plops down and spreads his legs disrespectfully wide, three of his arms draped on the arm rests while one props his chin up.
“Shall I take her to the room, your Highness?” asks Uraume, referring to you and the other concubines that reside in the palace under Sukuna’s rule.
“Yeah, yeah, I don’t care. Just throw it to the other ones. They’ll deal with it,” he says nonchalantly, talking about you as if you’re some object that needs to be taken apart and stored away.
You also can’t help but notice he keeps referring to you as ‘it.’ Rude.
You feel Uraume turn and begin walking down the long, dark, winding halls of the palace. You don’t dare speak, even though you feel a bit less like you’re about to be sliced in half at any moment now that Sukuna isn’t around.
She reaches a large door and pushes it open, your body still hung over her shoulder. The soft, whispered voices of women float to your ears, getting quieter when they notice the new presence.
“This is a new one for Lord Sukuna. Please tend to her wounds and clean her up for him,” Uraume explains, then setting your still-blindfolded self down gently on the floor before turning and leaving, shutting the door gently behind them.
There’s a moment of silence before the voices start again, some in hushed whispers and others in sweet greetings. You feel two girls begin to untie the ropes around your wrists and ankles, then finally your blindfold is removed. You blink against the light, your eyes adjusting.
“Oh, she’s quite pretty.”
“Poor thing, what happened to her?”
“Looks like she was being offered in a ritual. Look at those wax flakes!”
Your vision clears and you can finally see the group of women surrounding you, some helping you to your feet. You feel gentle hands all over your body, brushing you off and taking off the wax that remains glued to your skin. They apologize when you wince from the pain and speak to each other quietly.
“Let us get you bathed,” says one woman, her eyes just as kind as her voice. She’s tall and pale, but not a ghostly pale, rather one that makes her seem like she’s glowing. Her hair is a deep brown, falling in soft waves down to her hips. You nod weakly in response to her statement.
They lead you to a room in the back with a large pool, soft swirls of steam rising from the water. The tiles are a pale white, contrasting the dark theme of the palace.
They undress you and set your old dress aside before helping you into the hot water. You flinch from the temperature at first, reminded of the hot wax that was poured on your skin, but your body slowly adjusts and you relax, sinking into a sitting position. The other women kneel around you and begin washing your hair and body.
“What’s your name?” asks one of the girls as she rakes her hands through your hair. She looks younger than the other women, her round face shining with the reflection of the water. Her hair falls in dark curls over her shoulders.
“Fujikawa,” you reply softly, your exhaustion evident in your voice. “Fujikawa Y/N.”
“It’s lovely to meet you, Fujikawa.”
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