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phantasmique · 2 days ago

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Summary: it's moments like these where you can hardly recognize Sukuna as the terror that he is. But you aren't complaining.

Warnings: some mentions of violence but overall, just a bunch of fluff. Short and sweet.

Clingy.

It isn't a term that you ever could have imagined using for Lord Sukuna, but as of late, you've been struggling to apply a different word. Possessive certainly comes to mind. And it's definitely fitting for a man like him.

He doesn't share. He doesn't allow other people to so much as entertain the notion that he'd be willing to let another soul touch you - or any of his other concubines for that matter.

But it wasn't a secret, that for whatever reason, you are his favorite. It was a well-known fact in the estate. A truth that was aware to each and every servant housed among his staff. The details of your relationship with the King of Curses are exchanged quietly amongst the laborers and servants. Spoken in confidential hushes within the cover of darkened hallways and private corridors as they all speculate what you might have done to captivate the attentions of the man - an entity, more like. Hardly human anymore.

So it was odd that a beast as sadistic and self-serving as he would allow himself to be fascinated by someone as lowly as you. Even with your own cursed technique, you were hardly anything to gawk over, especially not by the likes of Ryomen Sukuna, a being that could rip you apart in the blink of an eye.

And yet, he does just the opposite, often demanding that you keep close to him. Always ordered to trail after him, expected to be just as consistent and loyal as a shadow.

You aren't ignorant to the glares that it earns you. Mostly from the other courtesans. Not that you could entirely blame them.

In this world, Sukuna's attention equals protection, and if you were in their positions, to him so entirely focused on another person, would feel like a death sentence.

But their desperation leaves them to try too hard. Coquettishly batting their eyelashes and swinging their hips in the hopes of enticing him. It was all too heavy handed. Their desperation was all obvious, and some of the most skilled amongst the harem are crumbling beneath their attempts to keep him intrigued.

He pays them little mind. Nights are still spent with them yes, a hedonist like him always indulging in the pleasures of flesh and life in any facet he can, but he doesn't request for any of them to trail after him in the way you're commanded to.

They are all free to wonder about the estate unrestrained, but you are to have your movements under constant scrutiny. If on the off chance you aren't at your position at your lord's side, you're accompanied by an escort in some capacity. It doesn't matter if you're safe within the estate grounds, you're to be monitored.

He keeps you guarded. Kept hidden like some sort of relic. Some sort of revered treasure that's been contained and bound down tight for his eyes only.

But you'd be lying if you didn't find some pleasure in it.

There's something empowering about having a man - a monster - as infamous as the King of Curses entranced by you. Even if he vehemently denies such a notion.

A displeased scowl always mars his features whenever the idea of it is implicated. A scoff puffing from his chest as though he's equally amused and offended, but you know that you have him.

His affections aren't sweet or docile. He doesn't care in a way that's light, delicate or embracing. He's all teeth and hunger. An endless chasm of want and greed that latches on like a parasite, sinking his claws into you until they're bone deep, rooted into your marrow to consume you from the inside out. Until there's nothing left.

It would be so easy to trick yourself into believing that he's some sort of old god. A deity of discord and avarice that's been written out of history, smeared from ancient scrolls and bygone texts by the very mortals that were meant to fear and worship him.

But he was human once long before he had become twisted and gnarled by his own corruption. Many see his existence as a blight on the earth. Sorcerers deeming his being as a blight on jujutsu. A disfigurement. A creature. More monster than man.

But to you, his horror only made him even more bewitching. There's a beauty in his violence. It's a temptation that you can't ignore. It draws you too him like a lure. A fly foolishly gliding into a vat of honey, willfully weighing down its own wings in the adhesive glimmer of gold and amber, drowning itself in the rich saccharine pools. A moth fluttering closer and closer to an open fire - not a single ember, not a delicate flame, but a full inferno; a pyre scorching its path across a forest, carving its destructive mark across the earth in licks of blazing, molten heat. And you long to burn.

You'd die a thousand times to gaze upon him.

Fortunately, you don't have to.

He wants you alive. Safe and secure regardless of how indifferent he expresses himself to be. You can see past the slivers in his facade - well, it's not quite a facade. He truly is callous. Apathetic and cold. He's an entity that deals in extremes. That lives to satisfy his own hubris and hunger, but you think that's why you've managed to slip past his rough exterior and nestle a place for yourself near that motionless, dead heart of his.

It was your determination. Your own unyielding pride that would endear you to him, as much frustration and sadistic glee that it had caused him in the beginning. He had delighted in trying to wear you down. Prodding and clawing at you in the hopes of seeing the head that you always held high hang down in defeat.

To snuff out the confidence in you that had been fostered and inherited from the generations of sorcerers that have come before you.

He's yet to succeed, and you think that is what has drawn him to you. Your refusal to roll over and bear your belly merely because he ordered it. It took years for you to yield to him without rebuttal or open annoyance; for him to know that you weren't simply a dog taught to heel, but you think that he takes pride in knowing that you've fallen to his violent allure.

You doubt he realizes how subdued his become with you. Blind to the extent of his own affections - as edged and barbaric as they often are. But every once in a while, he grows lax underneath your hands. Turning malleable and warm like melted wax. The sharp edges that make him shifting and softening just enough for your palms to glide over him.

He's so different from the beast you had met all those years ago, forced to kneel in order to save your throat while scrutinized you from the height of his throne, all arrogance and cruelty.

And now here he is, face cradled in your palms while you both lounge about, shielded from the gentle golden light of the evening sun by the roof of the yuka. Using your lap as a makeshift cushion while he reclines fully on the floor, his long legs stretched out, a pair of his limbs limp on either side of him while the other set are clasped together by their fingers, resting on his sternum.

It's not exactly the image that you would associate with a king. Much less the King of Curses. Yet here he is, all four of his eyes shut while he draws deep, steady breaths into his lungs.

It'd be easy to think that he's asleep, but you know better. Still, it doesn't keep you from allowing your gaze to dart across his face, taking note of his placid, almost peaceful expression, free from its usual scowling or sneering. The shape of his lips no longer pulled back into a taunting smirk, but neutral and almost soft.

It's a state that not many are honored with seeing, and you can't help but to indulge in it now that you have him here.

You nearly feel like a glutton as you sweep your vision over him in a shameless observation. Letting your focus trace over the tattoos that decorate his body. Slashes of black against the pale shade of his skin.

You've always wondered the meaning of them. You know that some sorcerers will get tattoos that represent aspects of their technique; it bonds them closer to their cursed energy and makes it more fluid to wield. But you can't help but to be reminded of the tattoos forced upon criminals. The markings on his arms are suspiciously similar to the same ones you've seen stamped upon the flesh of delinquents - the lowly men and women that you had been warned about by your mother and escorts while within the city. People who had been branded for their crimes as punishment.

The dark bands encircled around his wrists and biceps share somewhat of a similarity to the tattoos given to thieves, though the placement of them is a little off to be considered truly alike.

With how demented he is, you wouldn't be surprised if he intentionally made them look similar as some sort of twisted way of honoring his many crimes.

It has one of your hands lifting, your fingers slipping from the delicate grip they had on his hair to slip along his chest, feeling his muscle rippling beneath your palm as you brush your fingertips along the ink imbedded into his skin.

A low rumble reverberates from the depths of his ribcage, rising somewhere from within his lungs. It seems like a warning almost, one that anyone else would have heeded, but you keep your hand fixed in place, caressing your thumb just beneath his collarbone.

His eyes peal open then, squinting just enough to glare up at you from his place cradled between the plush of your thighs. Searing red, but the irritation reflecting from them is lazy. An echo of the languid way he's positioned himself within your space.

"I don't recall permitting your hands to wander." It comes out like he's berating you, but he makes no effort to correct your apparent error, remaining motionless and relaxed as you continue to card your other hand through his hair, lightly scratching your nails along his scalp.

You don't miss how his lashes flutter when you do it.

It makes a smile long to pull at the corners of your lips, but years of self-restraint and etiquette keep it from showing. Though you're sure that your mirth is revealed in your eyes.

"What's with all the staring?" He complains idly. His brow raising to further pronounce his question.

"I'm simply admiring my lord," you answer. A truth, and yet the playfulness in your voice is clear.

"As you should be."

You'd scoff if the hand on his chest wasn't so close to the mouth on his stomach. You wouldn't be surprised if he decided to snap it between those massive jaws to reprimand you.

You've seen it yawn open to gnash at limbs, massive teeth sinking into flesh to tear and rip, drinking down blood and shattering bones as easily as brittle branches.

It makes you mindful of how close you allow your fingers to drift, not allowing them to slip past the swell of his firm chest and down near the indention that slices across the width of his abdomen. A hint at the starved chasm that lurks behind it, the rows of fangs that wait to bite and eat.

He's used that mouth against you many times, none of them in such a malicious manner, but you still can't help but to be a little wary of it. You swear that it has a mind of its own sometimes, and you'd hate to be on the receiving end of a more violent kind of appetite.

It still can't keep you from your previous musings, and now that you have him focused you can't ignore the questions that are gathering in your mind.

"Your tattoos - are they amplifiers? I've seen a few sorcerers apply them to ground their technique."

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"I would. That's why I asked."

He glares at you then. Eyes narrowing in a way that makes you feel like a target. It nearly forces you to brace for a sudden rush of cursed energy, the instinctual part of you warning that he might lash out as punishment, but nothing comes.

There's no prickle that bite across the air, stinging and sharp before it strikes you down, only a delicate brush of a summer breeze as it glides along your skin.

"Are there no bounds to your insolence? I should kill you for that." He grumbles, baring his teeth as though he means to ward you off.

"I apologize, my king. " It sounds like a bluff, even to you, so you're certain that he isn't convinced. The clipped hum you get in response only confirms that he doesn't. "I was only curious."

"Keep your musings to yourself."

It's said sharply. A clear command for you not to prod at him further. Such an ornery, brash creature. You have to fight off the urge to roll your eyes at his curt behavior lest he chastises you more.

He acts as though it's a chore to be in your presence. As though he wasn't the one who had sought you out during your private time - a brief respite from the harsh nature of his courts and the routine of your daily schedule - to crowd himself within the structure of the gazebo, fitting himself along the wooden floor to rest the weight of his head within your lap.

Despite his apparent annoyance, he still doesn't tell you to cease touching him, and you know that one of the easiest ways of coaxing him back into a calm state is to give him attention. Regardless of how that attention is bestowed. Usually it's fear and dread that feeds into his ego the best, the screams and blood of others fueling that sadistic emptiness in him.

But you'll settle for touch for now.

He doesn't command you to halt your movements as you continue to sweep your hands along his body, messaging his chest and gently scratching along his scalp. If possible, it has him relaxing even further, going boneless on the floor with a heavy sigh, but his eyes don't slip shut this time. His lids fall heavy, nearly closing but staying open just enough to continue observing you through his lashes.

It's a cruel juxtaposition that someone who commits so many hideous atrocities is so beautiful.

The sun has crept a little lower in the sky, drifting downward in its course to reach the horizon and it allows glints of light to pour in past the small roof of the yuka. Traces of it catch in his hair, spilling along the soft shade of his hair, sketching over his features in gold. It puts fire in his eyes, glints of light flickering against rich red.

You can't help yourself this time when you allow the hand you have threaded in his hair to shift further down, sketching your fingertips along the structure of armored skin that rests over the right half of his face.

His eyes open a little wider then, latching onto your form with curiosity, and the hints of something more guarded present in them.

It doesn't stop you though. Perhaps a little foolish of you while it feels as though you're wandering into dangerous territory. A hare darting in front of a wolf's maw. Inviting itself to be bitten.

You feel possessed as you continue to cradle his face in your palm, struck by an emotion that is far too tender and enthralling for a being like him, but you have no desire to resist it.

The almost mask-like structure on his face is hard beneath your fingers, softened only slightly by the layer of calloused skin that's molded over it. The only comparison that you can make is if you were to touch a bit of bone poking out beneath the skin, like the jut of someone's hip or the point of an elbow. Rigid and tough, but also smooth in a way that's organic.

You make sure to be light, to keep your fingers from accidentally slipping close to his eyes and possibly irritating them. Surprisingly, he doesn't order you to remove your hands, allowing you to continue your exploration, letting your fingers sweep over the harsh edges and the divots of the natural armor.

You aren't sure how long you remain that way. Sweeping your hands over him, feeling the soft tufts of his hair on your palm and the rigid texture of his face along your fingers. Time slips away from you like this, and the delicate hiss of the wind threading through the trees and the perfumed scent of blossoms that it carries all fades into the background.

It all seems so unimportant. Useless as he stares up at you with something conflicted in his gaze. As though he's torn between lashing out or sinking further into your warmth.

"You're beautiful." It leaves you so naturally. The ease of it catching even you off guard. It's as though your soul is admitting a truth, one that you've been aware of but never had the courage to speak.

Suddenly you feel so bare. As though you've accidentally shed a meticulous piece of armor from yourself and allowed him to peek past. And the captivated look that you can feel weighing on your features certainly isn't helping.

He's equally as surprised. His eyes widening just the slightest in his shock, but it doesn't take long for him to recover, masking the expression with a scowl. You're certain that it's the exact look that many of his victims have been pinned by just before their death comes, delivered to them in a serrated rush of cursed energy or the lethal cut of his talons. And yet you can't bring yourself to be afraid. Not while he's cradled in the shape of your lap. Lazy and content despite his flaring.

"I'll cut out your tongue if you mean to insult me."

"I wouldn't think of such a thing." You promise. You're being entirely honest. The sincerity in your voice is as alive and burning as a fire. You can hardly place exactly when you've grown fond of him, just when exactly he had managed to bury beneath your skin to make a home for himself within your chest.

It's worrying just how much you've come to care for him. A development that your past self would have denied vehemently; you would have seen it as an ultimate betrayal to yourself, to your lineage and purpose. But you truly can't be bothered to worry about any of that now.

Not while something that nearly looks vulnerable passes through the rich shade of his eyes. A brief, defenseless show of emotion that he's quick to snuff out and hide with that typical brand of cold indifference; so quick that you hardly register it at all.

A hum leaves him them. More of a grumble. As though he's unconvinced of your assurance. But he doesn't bother with a verbal comment, only a sigh as he somehow settles further into your lap.

"Some of them are."

"Hm?"

"Amplifiers." He practically growls it out. Like clarifying is something tedious. A personal affront. He's glaring again. Squinting up at you like you're an annoyance - a gnat buzzing around his ear even while he's all but invited himself into your personal space.

It doesn't take you long to reconnect to your previous line of questioning. You can't help but to be a little surprised that he's bothered to circle back and answer them. Of course he has to do it on his own time. When he feels like doing so, dragging it out for the sake of keeping you from being in control - even in regard to something as simple as a couple harmless questions. Such a bullheaded bastard. Not that you'd tell him that.

A part of you longs to ask him just which ones specifically are amplifiers, which technique they belong to. The concept of such tattoos has always been fascinating to you. You've crossed paths with a fair share of sorcerers who have marked their skin with charged ink, rituals and their cursed energy directed to bind with the dark pigment.

Like a chain used to tether a wayward dog. A binding used to manage energy that's often too potent, too volatile otherwise.

With how practiced Sukuna is now with his abilities, wielding it with ease, bearing it like a second skin, he must have gotten the tattoos when he was still young and learning. Still a little disconnected from the cursed energy projecting from his body, simmering through his veins like the blood of a demigod, but too inexperienced to properly control it.

It makes you wonder what he may have been like way back then. It nearly seems impossible to imagine him as a child, with him being more beast than man. You're just barely able to visualize it, a much younger version of his current self, the sharp contour of his jaw much more rounded and youthful, shaping into chubby cheeks. Plump with stubborn baby fat.

He's probably always had that glare of his. Now it's an expression that induces fear and panic. The lethal hue of red that seems to burn in his eyes turning some of the bravest of sorcerers into pale comparisons of themselves. Back then that fearsome scowl must have been little more than a pout. A petulant furrow between his brows as glared up with wide, peevish eyes.

He must have been a handful for whatever soul had the misfortune of taking care of him, not that he's any easier to please now.

"You've got that stupid expression on your face again. Get rid of it." He snaps, fangs glinting from past his lips. "And did I tell you to cease touching me?"

You hadn't realized that your hands had slipped a little from crown of his head, fingers lifted to hover of his hair. The command doesn't annoy you as it probably should, as it would have in the past, it has a smile perking at your lips instead. Amused and soft. A reflection of the warmth blossoming inside the pit of your chest; a drop of sunlight burning and thriving.

You'd love to point out to him that he was complaining earlier about you doing just that, and now here he is, ordering you to touch him like some kind of spoiled house cat.

You'll keep your comments to yourself for now. All snide remarks and annoyance aside, he seems to be in a fairly good mood today, and you'd hate to ruin it now that you've got him rested in your lap.

Your hands seem to have minds of their own, muscles shifting to thread your fingers back through his hair, scratching your nails along his scalp. You don't miss the minute way his neck twitches, the movement nudging his chin back just the slightest to press his head into the gentle glide of your fingers. Subconsciously seeking out the comfort they provide.

He looks calm. At peace, eyelashes fluttering lightly before they slip shut. He sags down fully. Going lax and almost boneless. The weight of his head in your lap is nearly crushing, but you can't be bothered to voice complaints or to try and shift him into a more comfortable position.

You'll gladly bear the weight of him regardless of how much discomfort it might bring. And in moments like this, with him cradled by your body, relaxed and content from the warmth of your skin and the sun, you think you'd do anything for him. You'd kill for him.

You think you'd die for him too.

#sukuna x reader #sukuna x y/n #jjk x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna fanfic #jjk sukuna #ryomen sukuna #sukuna ryomen #sukuna jjk #jjk x you

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phantasmique · 5 days ago

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I can fix him, but why would I do that?

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phantasmique · 6 days ago

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well-

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phantasmique · 7 days ago

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❝ in which ryomen sukuna lets the intrusive thoughts win ❞ ❦ cw ; gn!reader. fluff. crack. suggestive themes. mentions of sex. ❦ words ; 330.

masterlist

All four of Sukuna’s eyes are trained on the open back of your robes as you speak with Uraume. Both pairs of arms cross over his broad chest as he stands close behind you. A scowl paints his features as he huffs, capturing your attention. Both you and Uraume turn to see what’s ailing him, but his attention seems to be elsewhere.

As soon as you turn your attention back to Uraume, that’s when you feel it. Long, warm, and wet, something trails the length of your bare back. Letting out a shrill gasp, your eyes widen as you jump, whipping around to face your boyfriend. His stomach mouth is slightly parted as proof of what he's done.

“Sukuna! What the hell?”

The four-armed behemoth is staring down at you, so much smaller than him, with a smirk, nothing short of pleased with himself.

“Why did you lick me?” You shuffle as you attempt to wipe his saliva from the length of your entire back with your robe-covered arm. “So gross…” You mutter to yourself, staring at your wet sleeves.

“Why do you wipe my saliva from your back? You had no complaints when my tongue was between your-”

“Kuna!” You hiss in a scolding tone that Sukuna secretly adores. His smirk grows to a grin as your cheeks visibly heat up. “For a king, you can be such a menace,” you grumble, pleased to see his grin falter at your words. “Cut that out while I’m talking to someone.” You shoot him a pointed glare and it takes every bit of self control he has (that he didn’t have thirty seconds ago) not to toss you over his shoulder and fuck you dumb until you re-learn some manners.

You know Sukuna secretly adores the way you aren’t afraid to put him in his place and you’re sure he did this just to get a rise out of you. You don’t need to know it was just an intrusive thought.

masterlist

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phantasmique · 7 days ago

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Summary: You weren't sure what to expect from Sukuna as a father. You had always imagined cold indifference, impatience, and brutality. . . Not this.

Warnings: Depictions of complicated childbirth, but all is well in the end (you're giving birth to Sukuna's fat as* baby, it ain't smooth sailing), girl dad sukuna, murder, violence, and fluff (He's a secret softly for his bbg)

Part two of this.

There were already whispers being scattered about the estate, murmured quietly within corridors and dark halls. Voices belonging to servants, humans and sorcerers alike that gossip assumptions about your pregnancy. Horrible claims - fears that you yourself had initially had - that the King of Curses only intends to use you as a vessel, to eat your child as soon as it is free from the womb. That he'll execute you as soon as the baby's cries ring out across the air and your labors are through.

You've learned to brush the dread and insecurities off, lest they take root, but it's difficult to ignore the anxiety that sinks in your belly at the thought of such a thing.

As horrific as it is to think, such a possibility wouldn't be entirely out of reach for a monster such as Sukuna.

It nearly makes you crippled with fear as the suspected date of your child's arrival creeps closer and closer.

✧ It was nineteen terrible hours of labor before your child was born. It was somehow a smeared blur and a vivid, visceral crawl of time all at once as you drew in ragged breaths between contractions. The midwives had encircled you closely, monitoring your every twitch and cry as you squatted on the mat, whimpering and huffing between your teeth. Some would make to rub your back, attempting to soothe you while every individual muscle in your body tensed and bore down with all of the strength they had, as though your being was determined to crush you from the inside out. You felt like you were dying. Flayed open and left to choke on choppy gasps.

✧ Sukuna was present for the entire process, refusing to stand outside of the chambers or to wait behind the blinds that had been set up to keep you hidden and private to the possibility of peering eyes. He shockingly said little during labor, opting instead to watch the midwives as they did their work. Even in your pained, exhausted state, you could notice how his presence had frightened them all, their eyes remaining trained on the floor, wide and anxious as they soothed and directed you as calmy as they could. All while he observed them with an air of equal indifference and hostility, an unspoken warning burning across the strained atmosphere. A warning - a promise - that if any misfortune were to fall on either you or the baby, that none of them would live to see the dawn rise.

✧ Active labor arose with its own complications, an unsettling reality that you hadn't wanted to face beforehand, but your child, it had seemed, was determined not to be born. No matter how tightly you clamped your muscles down, squeezing until your breath was crushed from your lungs and you couldn't even manage to scream all while you longed to, the babe wouldn't budge.

Everything burned. As though you had been lit on fire from the inside out, your organs turned liquid and shattered, your gasps snagging in your lungs as your forced yourself to breathe. It was as though your skull was made of stone as you forced it to lean back on your neck, which felt brittle, loose on your shoulders as you peered up at Sukuna through blurred vision; tears smearing across your eyes as you panted through your raw throat: "Ryomen, I can't. I can't do this."

He was moving then. Shifting across the wooden floor in a manner too fluid and quick for a being so tall, and in a blink, he had all but shoved the woman behind you away from your back. Harshly tipping her over onto her hands and knees, leaving her to scramble away like a wounded mouse as he replaced her. But instead of merely seating himself behind you to place an awkward hand on your spine, he was melding his body flush along your own, a pair of arms coming to grip your hips as he cradled as though you were a delicate, broken bird.

One of the midwives was barking orders, rattling off commands, but you were too dazed to comprehend them. The pain searing up your spine and burning through the cradle of your hips singlehandedly wiping out a single coherent thought. You could barely manage to internally curse yourself for each time you had allowed Sukuna to touch you, berating your past self for all the times that he had successfully seduced you and drew you to his bed.

This was his fault, and you made sure to tell him through gritted teeth.

But wors of all was the harrowing possibility that you might not survive at all. That your child might have to live without a mother.

You wanted to tell him then, that if he had to choose between the two of you, to pick the baby. That you would never forgive him if he allowed the child to die.

And then his voice was in your ear, low and soothing, but breaking across the pained fog in your mind easily. "You can do it, and you will. Nothing is going to happen to you; you're going to keep pushing. For your sake and our child's." He sounded so certain then. So deceptively calm, but you know Sukuna, perhaps better than you truly realize, and the agitation lurking beneath the placidity of his tone was clear to you then.

Perhaps it was hysteria settling in. The shock and pain of it all melding with disbelief as you registered that he was truly afraid. At least to some extent. But instead of frightening you in turn, it almost seemed to empower you. The realization that a violent entity like the King of Curses actually cares for you settling in your bones and sinew like a breath of life.

One of his hands had slipped across your slack, sweat dampened palm, threading his thick fingers through your own to offer a reassuring squeeze. "Hold onto me." He offered you then, firm and tender all at once. "As tightly as you need to."

You're certain that if he were a normal man, you would have broken the bones in his hands with how aggressively you had gripped onto it. But not once had he flinched or attempted to tug his hand from the vice of your grasp. Keeping it in place, an anchor, no matter how tightly you constricted it between your fingers as you bore down and screamed until your throat felt torn and ruined. You hadn't even noticed when finally, the sound of pitchy, furious cries rang out across the birthing chambers. By then, you had already passed out. Your vision crowding over with blackened dots and smoke, your eyes had slipped shut abruptly and your head had lolled back onto his chest.

✧ When you finally held your daughter for the first time, it all became apparent as to why her birth was such a difficult one. You've held and seen your fair share of infants; you had been present during the birth of your niece only months before you had been offered up by your village to appease Sukuna, but never, have you seen a newborn so massive.

She's a plum thing, chunky with a pudge and round, rosy cheeks. But the size of her had outclassed any child that you had ever seen, and as you cradled her to your chest, you couldn't help to wonder how you had managed to birth her at all.

Sure, it came with its complications, namely, you passing out as soon as you had succeeded in finally pushing her from your body, but most notably was the tearing and bleeding that had come with it. Apparently, what had followed was a frantic scramble from the physicians to stop the hemorrhaging. The men were desperate to halt the bleeding and get you stabilized. According to one of the midwives, who had whispered conspiratorially as she checked over you during the early morning, shared that they were failing to do so. The wounds too great to stop. So much so that she had feared that they would lose you. It had been Lord Sukuna who had healed you, she disclosed, utilizing his cursed energy to seal the tearing in your body, stopping the bleeding.

The physicians it seemed, had also secured their deaths by failing their duties, and she had revealed that the curse had slain them all where they stood.

✧ As disturbing as it was to hear, as much as you wanted to be angry by that bit of gossip, you couldn't manage it. Not as you held her. The thing that had caused you so much trouble already, but as soon as you looked into her eyes, all of the pain and agony that had haunted you only hours before seemed to melt away as easily as ice thawing beneath the sun.

Despite the considerable size of her, a plump thing that must at least be twice as big as any newborn you've ever witnessed, she appears to be rather human. Like you. No extra limbs or eyes. Not that you would have cared if she had them.

She looks like you. She has the same shade of skin; and despite the roundness of her features, chunky and less defined by her baby fat, it's clear to see that she has the shape of your nose. But she isn't all you. There's a clear influence of Sukuna in her rounded features.

Most babies have dark eyes, or they start out as a muted blend of gray and blue until it shifts into their true shade, but her color is already set in. The same striking hue as her father's, that deep burning red, lightly tinged with a delicate lilac, that for her you think, is the equivalent to the temporary blue that most infants have.

Her nails are also tinged a little dark, not nearly as rich as the color of Sukuna's talons, but you can only imagine that they'll blacken over time, and it wouldn't be impossible for them to become just as sharp. It makes you wonder if her teeth will be just as defined and lethal as her father's.

You can only hope that you won't be breast feeding by that time.

✧ You had almost expected - feared, honestly - that Sukuna would want nothing to do with her once he had the confirmation that she wasn't male - as a "proper" heir should be. The anxiety that he would ignore her or reject her all together had settled in the pit of your stomach like a nausea.

So it had been horrific when you had found your child absent from her nursery one late evening. You had felt panicked. Your mind overcome with a fear for the worst. That he had seen her as a waste and . . . disposed of her.

It had made you frantic, nearly running down the halls of the estate and snatching ahold of any soul that would cross your path, gripping them so tightly that you're sure you've left bruises as you demanded them to tell you where your child was. None of them knew.

It wasn't until you had burst into the throne room with wild eyes and the intent to kill that all of your panic and betrayal was snuffed out as quickly as it had kindled - extinguished like a wildfire meeting the shoreline of a placid sea.

You stood dumbfounded along the entrance of the room, staring off at the far end of it, past the group of village heads and clan leaders as they sat near the base of the throne. But it was the man that bent their wills and forced their loyalty that had you frozen in place.

He appeared as imposing as he always does, regal and languorous all at once as he reclined against the support of his ornate throne, propping his chin up on the heel of a single hand as he usually does. But it was the infant held carefully to his chest that caught you off guard.

Never could you have ever imagined that Sukuna would so brazenly display his child to the masses. It was a show of tenderness that was hardly fitting the volatile image of the King of Curses; a gnarled image painted by blood and ash. And yet it looked so human. So oddly natural to see her sheltered in a pair of his arms, a bit of drool dribbling from her bottom lip as she softly babbled to herself. The soft cooing just barely distinguishable over the chatter of one of the many village leaders as he speaks.

Your daughter had no concept of the meeting she had been invited to attend, and her attentions had been fastened elsewhere. Particularly on her father, who observes the crowd of fearful men, unbothered as his daughter grips at the collar of his robe. It's as though she's attempting to use it as leverage to try and sit herself upright, but only a few days old, her muscles are still undefined and her limbs equally uncooperative. It left her little choice but to stretch a single hand up, leaving the other to grip his collar to remain stabilized as she reached towards his head with wiggling, chubby fingers.

The cause of her fascination, it seemed, was Sukuna. Or more specifically, the mask like growth of hard, armored skin on the right side of his face.

He remains impassive in his observations, still it appears that he's unable to keep the lower eye that peers through the ridges of raised flesh from gazing downward to watch the baby that's determined to study him.

His expression is cold. Detached. And yet you're certain that there's a glimmer of warmth there. A smoldering, weak ember. So delicate that you doubt anyone else might have noticed, but to you, it's unignorable.

She seems to realize, somehow, that her father is watching her, because a loud trill that sounds suspiciously close to a delighted, unclear laugh spikes sharply though the air. Bouncing loudly along the walls noisily enough to cut over the voice of the man speaking.

It causes him to faulter. Falling silent as he observes the strange and perhaps improper sight before him. And then he manages to speak, shoulders twitching as he shifts uncertainly on his place seated on the floor.

"My Lord, I mean no disrespect, but are you certain this is the proper setting for a child-"

Much like all the others that have come before him, he hardly gets his final words out before he's silenced. A jarring, abrupt hush falling over the space before a spray of blood erupts from his body, spilling out from the back of his head in a line that gushes down until it meets the floor beneath him. It happens all in a quick second. A blink of an eye. And then the halves of his body - split clear down the middle like a butchered hog - collapse along the polished wood with heavy, damp thuds.

The blood from his remains spreads across the floor in a steady flow, staining across the robes of the men that had the misfortune of sitting within his proximity. But none of them dare to move, not even as the rich silks adorning some of their bodies were tainted wet and red.

They all quivered, bodies shaking with the strength of the fear possessing them making them unable to breathe. You yourself were robbed of the ability to; all of the air siphoned from your lungs despite how many times you've witnessed similar slaughters.

And then there's your daughter, still held carefully by the being who had just murdered a man as though he were only vermin, still cooing to herself and clumsily tugging on the sleeve belonging to the arm that suspends her. Entirely safe within the grasp of an entity that is a danger to so many.

It's the King of Curses voice that fills the silence.

"Would anyone else care to share opinions that would better remain unspoken?"

None of them utter a single word.

✧ Your daughter adores her father. It's something that becomes quickly apparent, though maybe it shouldn't be a surprise with how easily he was always able to lull her into a calm when she was busy kicking and tossing and turning while still unborn and in your belly. Placating her with little more than a hand on your bump or the sound of his voice - but it's truly because of his cursed energy. Or at least that's what Sukuna tells you. That she's able to sense it and recognize it as something familiar.

He too can feel her own, obscure and unpracticed, but powerful nonetheless, despite only being an infant. Stronger than even centuries old curses and practiced sorcerers, he'd told you.

"Not that I'm surprised. She is my progeny, after all. There's no room for weakness in my bloodline."

He is still harsh in some respects. Expecting excellence, still violent and sadistic. Her arrival has done nothing to damp the instincts in him, not that you were expecting it to. You can only hope that he'll learn not to be so demanding of her. To trade his brutality for patience, at least in regard to her.

Her eyes always seem to light up when she sees him. That familiar shade of red that's usually alight with venom or arrogance, is now something much softer to you - alive with a child's innocence.

While others flinch and shy away from the monstrous sight of Ryomen Sukuna, fearful of his viciousness, she looks at him with nothing but curiosity and delight. A happy coo leaving her when he passes into her line of vision, completely unaffected by the sight of the appearance that so many call monstrous. But to her she only sees her father.

✧ You can't call him a changed man. And you doubt that you'll ever get that right, but he's as tender as an entity like him is capable of. It still shocks you to see him intentionally spend time with her, as brief as those moments can be, with him often busy with the lords and peasants alike that beg for mercy at his feet. Or caught up in the excitement of terrorizing villages until only fires and flayed bones remain in his wake.

But he does do his best, you know, to be involved in her life. Occasionally seeking you out while you're in the gardens while in between his duties. You go there frequently, to bask in the warmth that was finally beginning to creep back into the air after what had felt like an endless winter.

It was one particular evening when he had come to visit, unannounced, and managing to catch you entirely off guard as he sat himself down beside you. Eclipsing you from the sun with his height while he drew his long legs into a crossed position. He sat close enough that the right set of his arms brushed along your shoulder. For a moment he was entirely silent, observing your daughter from her place in front of you both.

You had laid a blanket out across the grass to keep it from possibly irritating her sensitive skin, but you thought it would do her some good in getting fresh air, rather than being inside of the estate each day, all day long.

She had spent a majority of her time staring up at the leaves shifting above her, admiring the way the sun flitted between the limbs in soft glints of gold; protected by the shade they offered. But only a few minutes in she had managed to squirm over until she had maneuvered onto her stomach to eagerly scan her surroundings, attention caught by the trill of birds and the breeze sweeping softly through the garden.

Despite her wonder, her muscles were still weak, underdeveloped from lack of use, and she wasn't quite able to build the strength to properly analyze her surroundings or shift forward.

You could see her arms twitch in front of her, as though she was longing to pull her body forward but unable to do so, and in response an angry pout had pinched her face. A sign that she had become upset by her inability to move as she truly wanted, but the sight of it let you know that a tantrum might be in the makings.

You were quick to lean over, gathering her up softly in her arms, softly hushing her as you clutched her close.

"Can she not even crawl?" Sukuna asked. As though he were disturbed, or mildly affronted by the discovery.

"She's still young, Ryomen. It's perfectly normal." You didn't bother trying to hide the way you were glaring at him. "It can take months for babies to learn how to crawl. It took a nephew of mine nearly ten."

Sukuna hummed under his breath. A low, noncommittal noise as he squinted down at her while she squirmed against your chest, her head wobbling back as she shifted, making an effort to seek him out. Following after the sound of his voice to stare back at him with an amused babble. It was as though she was greeting him in her own way.

"That nephew of yours sounds incompetent. She'll be better."

As overjoyed and proud as you were of it, you also couldn't help but to be annoyed when he was right. She would successfully crawl only four months later, and the arrogant smile he gave you in response made you want to slap him.

✧ One unfortunate trait of your child's is that she seems to be nocturnal. She tends to wake in the middle of the night, crying furiously until you're forced to clamber up from the bedding, eyes stinging with the desire to sleep. Sukuna had proposed that you employ a nursemaid to look after your child, a proposition that you had firmly rejected, regardless of how exhausted you often may be as a result.

On nights when Sukuna is absent and you're unable to shove his fatherly duties onto him, you couldn't help but to curse him, swearing quietly under your breath as you tend to your daughter. Always restless in the night.

As fussy as she can be, it luckily doesn't take long to lure her back into sleep, the sound of your voice doing enough to make her tire. Old lullabies and folksongs that had once been used to tempt you to rest now doing their job to do the same to your daughter as you lightly sway her in your arms while she watches you through tired blinks. Resisting sleep, fighting against herself as her eyes long to shut - a stubborn thing, just like her father. Though he insists that it's a trait she's inherited from you.

You agree to disagree.

But on nights when he is home, he does try to tend to his daughter. In the beginning you would have to berate him out of bed, chiding him that it was his responsibility as well.

He would concede, though not without an irritable grumble of his own, a warning flash of lethal teeth peeking from his lips, eyes searing red like he might actually tear you open for being so insolent, but the strike never comes. Your throat and breath remain intact, even as he glares with the intent to kill.

"Careful, woman. You may have borne my child, but it doesn't grant you immunity. It'd suit you to mind your tongue."

But the scolding is all talk. Not that you've allowed yourself to become ignorant to his nature. He is still violent. A sadistic, hedonistic being that lives to satiate his selfishness.

He may be the father of your child, but he still is and always will be the King of Curses. And living with him is like sharing a space with a beast that's become comfortable with your presence. You're permitted to indulge in him, not entitled to it. As much of a truth as that is, you can't help but to be comfortable with him.

It is not a figment of your imagination that he has become gentle with you to some extent. A favoritism that the other concubines and servants under his command have taken notice of. How he allows you to get away with comments and remarks that would have anyone else flayed open and skinned.

But not you. He wouldn't dare to touch you in a manner that would leave you lifeless and torn. You know that truly, in the depths of your soul, and as foolish as it may be, you would place your life in palms of his bloodied hands a thousand times over.

✧ You caught him once, late in the night, when the rest of the estate was asleep, and the only beings left awake seemed to be the three of you. You hadn't been up for long. Roused from the depths of your slumber by habit alone, your body stirring on its own from the repetition of being shocked awake by the cries of your daughter.

But that night there had only been a composed quiet.

It had concerned you at first, but a quick glance to your side had revealed that Sukuna was absent from his place beside you. The cursory glide of your hand had picked up traces of warmth along the bedding told you that he hadn't been gone for long.

You could have turned over and indulged in the extra sleep that you're rarely afforded, but something had urged you to gather yourself from the bed, leaving the sanctity of your sleeping quarters to go and seek out where Sukuna and presumably your daughter might have gone.

It didn't take you long to track them down, finding them in the throne room -somewhat predictably. You had stuck to the shadows, remaining silent as you observed a sight that Sukuna may not have allowed you to see otherwise.

He wasn't seated in his throne as he often is, but instead standing near the base of it, shrouded in dim light as he admires the ornate, embellished seat; the rows of steps raising it high.

She fusses for a moment in his arms, even in the low, amber light, you can see her face pinching with annoyance, tiny grunts spilling past her lips.

It's uncanny, if not a little amusing, how similar the scowl that crosses Sukuna's face looks in comparison to her pout. A displeased grimace pulling at his mouth, flashing his lethal fangs; the low light catches in his eyes, reflecting in the same manner that it would an animal's, flickers of gold shifting in his pupils.

It would make anyone else cower in fear. He appears more animal than man, but she remains entirely unaware and unscathed from the calamity that embraces her.

"You truly are a bothersome creature. " He remarks. It's said casually. As though she can understand him. It has her focus drifting back onto him, watery maroon eyes pinning onto his countenance with rapt attention. "You haven't got a clue, do you?"

His brows raise almost expectantly, as though he's waiting for her to answer him back. Of course, there's only silence from her end, earning a contemplative sort of hum from her father. It's as though she's disagreeing with him when a cry leaves her, loud and petulant enough that it nearly has you shifting from your hiding place to take her into your arms, but something keeps you rooted in place to watch the exchange.

"Silence." But she isn't one of his victims or followers and his command falls on deaf ears. Her protesting continues in quiet grunts that are gradually rising in pitch, and it has him tsking his tongue.

It seems so abrupt when her angry whimpers suddenly die out. Fading until she's only staring silently. It leaves you a little baffled, left to wonder what sort of spell he might have possibly casted on her to have her yield to his order, and then you hear it.

A low, rhythmic thrum that scatters along the atmosphere in a familiar resonance. One that you've heard directly beneath your ears, echoing out from the depths of his chest while you curl up against him at night.

He's purring to her.

The same way that a mother cat - or better yet, a tiger, will do to soothe its cubs. And it's effective. Already you can see that it's luring her closer to sleep. Her eye lids drifting to close as she actively resists the urge, practically squinting up at her father as she tries to remain awake. But it's a losing battle and the reposeful hum pitching from his chest finally draws her to pass out. Unconscious and peacefully resting in a span so swift that you can't help but to be impressed and jealous.

It's adorable how quickly her eyes finally slipped shut, now safe and content in her father's hold.

The clear look of admiration that overtakes his expression nearly breaks you. Never have you witnessed a glimpse of something so soft, so pure displayed in his stare.

"There's a long road ahead of you. Your existence alone poses a threat to mortals. It won't be easy." It sounds like a warning. Perhaps an apology. The hand cradling her shoulder, the size of it spanning the width of her body, lifts its thumb to smooth it along the swell of her cheek. A caress as though he intends to soothe her of a pain that she has yet to face. "I'm eager to see what you make of yourself. You are my heir, and I have no doubts that you won't bring this world to its knees."

It's a conversation - a hope - that any other mother would have been horrified to hear. A wish for her to continue his path of barbarity, but to you, with the sight of a man so cruel watching her as though she was the most sacred thing in the world, the only thing you could possibly feel is love.

#sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna x y/n #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #sukuna jjk #sukuna ryomen #ryomen sukuna #jjk sukuna #sukuna fanfic #jjk fanfic

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phantasmique · 7 days ago

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phantasmique · 8 days ago

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I might try and make a part two to my Sukuna fic, but it might take me a day or two to get it out. So for anyone who's interested, keep an eye out!!

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phantasmique · 10 days ago

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Synopsis: You're pregnant by the King of Curses, but as violent as he is, there might just be some gentleness beneath it all.

Warnings: Mentions of cannibalism; a tiny, tiny dash of blink-and-you'll-miss-it spice; murder (it's sukuna).

Part two.

There were many things to consider as a consort to the King of Curses. His proclivity for violence, his cold indifference towards humanity. He's crushed thousands of lives beneath the palms of his hands, spilt blood and sliced flesh beneath his talons simply because the urge had struck him. He's cut down women just like you, for something as simple as breathing too loudly.

It hardly comes as a surprise whenever you wake in the morning, long before the sun has crested past the horizon in shades of gold and lilac, only to learn that another one of your fellow concubines has fallen to your lord's ire. Slain for reasons that you have longed since elected to ignore. They mattered little in grand scheme of things, and they often came down to small, tedious motives: She took too long to respond to one of his questions, she stuttered when she responded to him, she gazed at him for too long without permission.

You've learned long ago not to care. You've snuffed that part of yourself out. Crushed it underfoot as easily as one would do to a troublesome insect. Empathy will not ensure your survival in the King of Curses courts, and you've done well to persist after all of these years.

To nod when expected, to keep your eyes leveled to the floor unless ordered otherwise, to speak only when spoken to even while the urge to berate him burns at the tip of your tongue like something molten. A hot ember in your mouth, but you refuse to spit it out.

You learned how to read him. To see the subtle ticks and expressions that would show on his face, using them as a guide for his fickle moods. You knew your place. You knew how to survive. And as exhausting as it was, it was manageable. All was well, until it wasn't.

❃ "You're pregnant." It was clipped, blunt, detached. Said so candidly, as though he hadn't said something that had your heart plummeting down into the pit of your stomach like a stone. You had looked up at him then, wide eyed and openly gawking from your place posted at his feet with something like a scoff threating to spill past your lips. Your mind had scrambled, crawling for an explanation, longing for an answer.

That isn't possible. Curses aren't capable of reproducing. You know that he was human once, a long time ago, but that bit of his humanity must have long since perished. Right?

Pregnant. That shouldn't be achievable for you to produce a child with a curse. That had been a small shred of peace, a truth that you had clung to. That you had kept close to your chest, knowing that regardless of how many times he'll take you, carving a place in you for his pleasure, that you'd never have to bear his heir.

You do love your lord, in a twisted sort of way. He isn't merciful, or kind in any capacity. The brutal, corrupt entity that he is. But he does provide a safety that you might not otherwise had, a home and leniency towards your village that others have not been afforded; thus, a grace extended to your family.

Still . . . someone like Sukuna as a father. Was he even capable of such a thing?

It's true that your time of the months was late, but that had been easy to excuse. Your monthly blood had been overdue before. Delayed by stress and anxiety. And with Sukuna as a lover, you would not dare to sleep with another man. Not that you'd want to, anyway.

But surely he was lying. That wasn't possible. You couldn't be pregnant. Not by a curse. Not by him.

Your mouth had opened, lips parting to speak. To gasp or to deny his claim you weren't sure, but he had silenced you before you could even attempt to force a word out. Lazily lifting a single hand while all four of his eyes slipped down to settle on you, glaring red and piercing in the dark of the shrine.

"I wasn't a question." His nose twitched just the slightest, as though he's caught the scent of something odd, but you were certain the there was a smile nudging at the corners of his lips. As though some part of him was pleased.

Your voice was snagged. Dead in your throat. You had to draw in a tight, shaky breath to even attempt to form a sentence. "That's not pos-"

"I can smell it on you." He answered. Still lounging on his throne. Undisturbed while your world crumbled. " It's practically wafting from your pores. Make no mistake woman, you're carrying my heir."

❃ You had expected a swift death after that. There was no way that the King of Curses would ever entertain the notion of a lowly human bearing his offspring. Tainting his blood line. But the killing blow never came. It nearly made your unease worse. You aren't ignorant to his diet. His taste for human flesh. For the blood of women and children. It made you feel like a pig for slaughter. Meat being preserved for a feast. You've always been a prisoner here, a slave to his wiles, but now you were an animal, a brood mare. You've only ever had to try and save your own skin. To worry for your own life, but now you weren't afforded the luxury of selfishness. You had an unborn life growing in your belly and it had terrified you.

❃ But instead of shunning you, Lord Sukuna was showering you with a sense of possessiveness that you have never experienced from him before. Sure, you were used to the marks. The blotches of plum and blue and crimson that he would scatter along the flesh of your neck and breasts, the tender pink lines that he would mar along your skin, branding your hips and thighs from his talons. But his greed extended little beyond that. You were free to wander the courtyard with the other courtesans at your side. Small moments of serenity that you were all given in between your duties. Free to gossip, and read, or nap beneath the Sakura and plum trees; admiring the petals as they fall and glide across the currents. Carried off far past the shrine walls.

Sometimes, you'd imagine that those petals were you.

Now those small blessings are a peace that you are no longer extended. Guards now follow your every move. Stalking behind you closely like shadows. Silent, constant, and close. Always looming. Always there by Sukuna's decree to monitor and scrutinize you.

❃ You were no longer ordered to sit along the steps, posted at his feet like a loyal dog. He had you perched on his lap instead. Cradled on his thighs. Constantly gripped by at least one of his hands in some compacity. He had become keen on holding a palm to your stomach whether he fully realized it or not. Keeping it flat on your abdomen as though he was shielding your unborn child from the world, with the massive height of his body pinned along your back. Keeping you clutched to his chest as he was waiting for a threat to try and snatch you from him.

He'd keep you there for hours, seated between his massive thighs while peasants and aristocrats alike would get on their knees at the base of the throne's steps, bowing on their knees and begging for mercy and exemption from his slaughter. All while you were in something that was suspiciously close to an embrace. Not that you would voice such a thing to him. Not even with the safety of carrying his child offering some sort of immunity. Not at the risk of invoking his anger. But with how tightly he kept you secured in his arms, his chin raised over the crown of your head, there was little else to call it. And you loathed how much you were beginning to find comfort in it.

❃ Of course, he'd always find ways to shatter that sense of delicate security, whether or not he truly meant to. Namely when he had a servant executed. All because the young man had paid you too much attention; foolishly asking you if you needed any assistance navigating the gardens given your "delicate condition" as he had put it, offering his hand for you to take in the means to help you in your steps. All it had taken was for his fingertips to brush along yours.

In second he was there. Living, breathing, rosy cheeks and a kind smile. And then red. A crest of blood fanning out from his neck. And those gentle eyes. A brief flicker of life in them, and then dull. Muted like a set of worn marbles.

His severed head met stone with a heavy thud, rolling and rolling softly until its traction was halted by grass and moss. His body followed only moments later. No longer held up by spirit and blood, it gave beneath its own weight; knees buckling to collapse like a felled tree.

Despite the balmy nature of the breeze, gentle and humid, you felt frozen. As though your veins had been rushed with chilled water. You couldn't breathe as you stared at his body, disconnected and lifeless like a child's toy that's been carelessly broken and discarded.

"Pathetic vermin. He should know better than to touch things that don't belong to him." His shadow stretched over you then, eclipsing you from the light as the moon does the sun. His cursed energy prickled over your skin, seeping past the barrier of your garments to brush over your flesh, locking your limbs in place.

"A simple warning would have sufficed," you mumbled. Forcing your words out past the heavy feeling of your tongue. They feel broken and hushed all at once, but you can't stop looking at the way the rich maroon seeps out across the fresh green of the lawn, mixing with the morning dew.

His voice slips out into your ears then, a low rumble, possessive and unyielding. "I don't do second chances."

❃ You could hardly call a being like Sukuna soft. He was all hard edges. Harsh. From his brash, unyielding attitude to the rigid planes of his body. Taut muscles and serrated talons. Violent teeth that were honed to tear through flesh and snap bone, but it was undeniable that something in him had relented. Turned malleable by the sight of the bump peeking out from the layers of your skirts. Not quite tame, but . . . tolerable.

❃ He had requested - ordered - that you sleep with him in his quarters from that point onward. A command that split through the haze in your skull like the snapping of a neck.

Your brain was still cloudy. Fogged over and drawn blank by an intoxicated thrum, limbs lax and exhausted after he had drawn orgasm after orgasm from your body. Tipping you over the edge and under a rush of pleasure with a sadistic kind of delight; a sharp, wolfish smile had been split across his face.

The mere idea of getting up from your place on his bed and shuffling your way back to your sleeping quarters on wobbling legs, smeared with cum and sweat had seemed horrendous, but you knew what was expected of you. It had been muscle memory when you nudged your body up from the bedding, slipping your legs over the edge as you scanned the floor for your tattered jūnihitoe; ripped and torn in his fervor to have you naked. Discarded somewhere carelessly.

Then a hand was gripping you. Holding you tightly by the nape of your neck as one would scruff an untoward cat. It had a cold dose of fear skirting beneath your flesh, shivering down your spine and locking you in place as easily as the grip on your neck.

"You're to sleep here from now on."

It was firm. Final. No room for you to argue. And you didn't.

❃ It's lead you to an unexpected discovery. The King of Curses can purr. You had hardly believed it when you first heard it. A low, repetitive hum that had roused you from your sleep in the night. A guttural noise right beneath your ear, breaking periodically in between the gentle rise and fall of his chest. It had caught you entirely off guard. So much so, that in the moment, you assumed you were imagining it. A hallucination brought on by sleep. But the longer you stayed awake, forcing your eyes to remain open as you lifted your head to stare at the slumbering King of Curses, it was unmistakable - he was purring.

Like a kitten would. A soft, gentle sound that juxtaposed horrendously with an entity like him. It nearly made you laugh, but you had just enough wit and self-restraint to contain the sound before it could bubble up to the surface.

You aren't certain how long you had remained that way. Slightly propping yourself up to admire him in the dark, tracing over his face as the light of the moon poured into the room, painting over his skin in hues of blue and soft white; painted by the night.

His scowl softens in his sleep. The furrow between his brows fading into something placid, that arrogant grin - more of a snarl, really - now neutral. He almost looks harmless in moments like these. No glinting teeth or glaring, burning eyes. It's here that you can imagine that he isn't a possible threat. That he won't place you between his fangs and bite until there's nothing over left except for scraps and shards of bone.

❃ He's kind in his own way. A thought that you never once expected yourself to have. Not in regard to him, at least. But he tries, in his own way, to be gentle. When walking with him in the past, you were always expected to trail after him by a few paces, never at his side, but now he makes an effort to guide you at his side. Keeping a hand secured to the small of your back so that you don't fall behind. Now he he's forgone that all together and has taken to totting you around all together as easily as if you were made of feathers and cushion.

It's become a chore to move. Your sense of balance has been altered for the worse, thrown off by the weight of your belly that longs to tip you forward. And the swelling of your feet does little to help, smarting and uncomfortable. You're a stranger in your own skin. Sluggish, as though you've been packed in tight and tugged down by stones.

He's rushed you before in the past, glaring down at you from over his shoulder without a shred of sympathy. He appeared as though he was possibly considering in finally smiting you down, inconvenienced by your lumbering as you willed yourself to follow after him down the corridor in a sluggish waddle.

"Walk any slower and you'll truly be testing my patience."

On any other occasion you could have brushed it off. Ignored it as simply as the other comments he's made at you before, but your ability to control your temper has become poor as of late. Turned brittle and weak by the changes in your body. It's made your tongue loose and sharp, and without thinking you had snapped:

"My apologies for my current state, my lord, but this is just as much your doing as it is mine. So unless you intent to assist me, I suggest keeping your comments to yourself."

As soon as you blurted it out and registered the sound of your own voice, you fully expected to have you head struck clean from your shoulders. You always imagined that the last thing you ever see would be the carmine flash of his eyes before your vision went dark.

His eyes are indeed on you. Still observing you from over his shoulder. They narrow, thinning down into a familiar scowl, and you're certain that this is the end of line for you. It's fallen silent. The world drawn to a hush as you count down the seconds till your death. It's involuntary when your hands drift down to cover your stomach, fingernails clinging at the silk as though it might possibly protect your child.

But the killing blow never comes.

"You're a testy thing today. I'll ignore it - just this once." The rumble of his voice is the only warning you get before he's shifting on his feet to face you. A pair of hands fasten around your hips, a single strong arm slipping around to support your spine as you're suddenly lifted from the ground to be held to his chest. It happens so suddenly that it nearly disorients you. A complaint rises up from your chest, but as soon as you register the relief that melts over your feet at the absence of carrying your weight, it has you falling silent. Settling to sit complacent, and at ease in his hold.

❃ He's come to tolerate your defiance. No doubt pardoning you because of the heir you carry. But there were many instances where he would not relent, no matter how stubbornly you tried to remain in your opinions. Namely in regard to the denial of indulging in a very particular craving.

Initially you had thought nothing of it when Masami had tripped. Somehow stumbling on her skirts and collapsing down onto her knees in a nasty fall. You had rushed to her as quickly as you could, some of the other girls following in suit to crowd around her.

She had raised her hands then, facing them up towards her face so that she could inspect the skinned flesh there. Inflamed pink and riddled with small red abrasions that marred the heels of her palms.

Small wounds in the grand scheme of things. Something that you yourself have obtained throughout the years, but not once has the sight of it achieved such a response. You're certain that you could smell the blood beading past the parting of the skin. It wasn't a scent that you've learned to associate with blood, all pungent and iron. This was pleasant. It was rich, enticing, melting along the summer air like something buttered and warm. It made your mouth water. Suddenly your stomach was too hollow. Famished.

Your focus narrowed down, and you couldn't help but to admire how the sunlight glinted delicately along the red. Glittering faintly like flecks of gold on the seeds of a pomegranate. You wondered then, what it would taste like to run your tongue along her palm. To have the blood spread into your mouth.

It wasn't until someone said your name, loud and sharp, that snapped out of your daze. Jerking in place as though you had been stung. It wasn't until you met Masami's stare, her eyes wide and a little panicked that you realized that you had been staring. Focused intently on her wounded hands with the same hunger of a dog eyeing a slab of meat.

Sukuna had found out, of course. He had eyes and ears everywhere, shadows tucked into every corner; and no matter how quietly one might whisper in the amongst themselves, he always manages to hear.

He had shocked you honestly, when he had taken to approaching you about the topic rather than opting have Uraume slip human flesh into your meals. Still, you had refused. This was something that you could not possibly get yourself to budge on. The thought of it made you nauseous, it had your stomach turning despite the hunger pinching at your gut.

Reduced to a complete stranger in your body as the child in your womb altered it into something unrecognizable. Riddling it with twisted urges that made you want to run away from yourself. Haunting you with a hunger that would keep you awake at night, fantasizing about a craving that should make you fall ill. That should have you trembling with dread, and yet your mouth would only water at the thought.

The stare that he had leveled you with unamused. Arresting as it fixed you in place and forced you to still. As motionless as a statue as he looked down his nose at you, all four of his eyes latched onto your form in glints of searing red; a glint of fangs showing past his curled lips.

"Do not forget that it is my child you're carrying. Denying your hunger is only prolonging the inevitable. You'll cave eventually."

And he was correct. He typically dines alone, but since your pregnancy he's taken to having you accompany him for his meals. He had respected your demand that you were only served human food. Though you never missed the almost arrogant way that he would observe you as you plucked rice into your mouth. Like he was relishing in yourself induced suffering. Like he was waiting for you to break. The curiosity in his eyes always present, but like a challenge you tried you hardest not pay attention to the scent of cooked flesh permeating around the dinner table.

Try as you might it wasn't long until you had all but stolen a cut of meat from his meal, cooked rare and bleeding. And like some sort of ravenous animal, you had scoffed it down, clutching it with trembling fingers that shoved it in your mouth quicker than you could fully chew. Unable to pay your guilt, or the delighted expression on his face any mind as the famished pit in your gut finally felt something close to relief.

❃ As much as you love your child, there are times where it's already begun to display too many shared characteristics with their father. Namely the ability to disturb you and ruin your sleep. They get restless in the night; like clockwork, tossing and turning in your belly and battering the inside of your stomach with a near constant stream of kicks.

They weren't even born yet, and already they seemed to be throwing a tantrum. Pitching a fit as though they were demanding to be released.

It would force you awake, keeping your eyes wide open while sleep stung at them, weighing them down with the temptation to slip closed. But as soon as you would begin to nod off, it's as though the baby in your womb knew, and they'd make sure to punish you with a harsh nudge of their little foot. It's a wonder how something so small can deliver such a harsh strike. Enough to have you wincing; the air hissing sharply through your teeth while you glare up ceiling like you might find salvation in the shadows settled there.

"Are you determined to interrupt my sleep, woman? Why do you keep whining and huffing?"

As enticing as you usually find the sound of his voice, the sudden sound of it rumbling across the quiet is only grating. Your annoyance flaring, worn thin by the bout of kicking that's being delivered to the tender stretch of your stomach.

It had your voice cracking out with equal irritation. Unrestrained in your ire. "That's because your child won't stop kicking at me."

You can't stop yourself from turning your head over to glare at him, meeting his scowl, finding the intense red of his eyes in the dark.

"How annoying." He grumbles, face pinching into a peeved grimace. It makes you tempted to try and climb up from the bedding and leave his quarters all together. Perhaps you could take a walk around the estate until the baby settles. Sometimes if you speak to it, or hum lowly in those old lullabies your own mother had sang to you as a child, they calm down. Soothed by the sound of your voice.

It's as though Sukuna can sense your intent, and in a blur, he's gripping you by the torso to tug you up to his chest in a grip that's uncharacteristically gentle. Nestling you against his body as though you could possibly break.

He's done it before and yet it always manages to shock you into silence. To have you fall quiet and motionless lest you break whatever spell has fallen over him.

It makes you wonder if this is what it would feel like to be a rabbit drawn in to slumber with a wolf. Nestled against its fur, expecting a flash of snarling, drooling teeth, but only finding comfort and warmth instead.

"Troublesome, aren't you?"

There's the desire to retort. To give some sort of scathing remark in defense of yourself. To remind him that the child in your belly is very much his doing just as much as it is yours. Then one of his hands is slipping across the swell of your stomach, smoothing over the skin in a gesture that should be too soft for a man like him.

Using the same hands that are covered in blood from slaying thousands, sorcerers, men, women, and children, to cradle where your child rests. It clicks then that he isn't talking to you.

You dare to glance up at him, and it quickly confirms that his attentions are pinned down on your stomach. The expression on his face is tired, exasperated, but you swear that you can see something almost tender melting at the irritation there.

You wince when the baby lands another kick just beneath your belly button, directly where Sukuna's palm sits, as though they can feel the pressure of it.

"Restless, are you?" He muses, caressing his thumb along the bump. "There's plenty of time for all of that later. There will be many a sorcerer for you to torment once you're older, but for now it's time to rest. Let your mother sleep."

It's so conversational, the way he speaks to them. Talking as though they might possibly answer, and with how strange a being like Sukuna is, you truly wouldn't be surprised if he revealed to you that he could communicate with your unborn child in some manner.

You can feel the baby shifting, some part of its body brushing against your stomach as it moves. And act of defiance possibly, and you half expect to receive the sting of another kick, but it never comes.

You're practically holding your breath as you await another strike, yet there's nothing. Only calm. Only the dim sound of your steady breathing and the soothing hush that's fallen over the dark of the room.

Finally, there's peace. The warmth of Sukuna's body seeping into your back like the steam of a hot bath and just as easily it has your limbs unwinding. The weight of sleep engulfing your body, causing your eyes to fall heavy, the lure to slip shut falling over you like the comfort of a blanket.

His voice purrs out then, low and hushed, thrumming along your shoulders while he whispers a delicate command.

"Sleep."

But that time, you're certain he was speaking to you.

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