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.