#Sukuna Ryōmen

[daisies-daydreams]

OMG CAN I GET SUKUNA WITH A CHUBBY WIFE?..LIKE LETS JUST SAY HES REMEMBERING THE TIME THEY FIRST MET..obviously remembering fondly (we totally didn’t hit him cause he scared us accidentally, only to then apologize profusely.). He only gets out of his little daze when we get home, carrying TONS of bags from shopping (his money ofc…only obtained after we gave him sloppy toppy). We greet him and stuff..idk where the smut comes in tbh. 😇🙏 YOU CAN PICK IF IT DOES OR DOESNT. BE CREATIVE MAH LOVE. MWAH MWAH TAKE YOUR TIME AND HAVE FUN WITH IT. LOVE YAAAA

Lay All Your Love on Me (CEO!Ryōmen Sukuna x Plus-Sized!Wife!Reader)

Pairing: CEO!Ryōmen Sukuna x Plus-Sized!Wife!Reader Category: Fluff/Smut Warnings: Slight Angst, Oral Sex (M! & F! Receiving), Dom!Sukuna, Praise Kink, Handcuffs/Bondage, Spanking/Pussy Slapping, Mentions of Safe Words/Actions, Dirty Talk, Rough Sex, Unprotected P in V Sex (You Know the Drill), Creampies, Vaginal Fingering, Orgasm Denial, Nipple Play, Daddy Kink, Missionary/Mating Press, Mentions of Breeding, Pet Names, Swearing Word Count: 5.3k+ A/N: Sukuna simps come get your juice. 💦🧃 So sorry it took me so long to get to it dear. 😭 Thank you for your sweet & spicy request and I hope you enjoy!

Sukuna sighed as he rubbed his strained, red eyes. The computer screen glared at him with a harsh glow as his head pounded incessantly. All that time he spent in the office this past week…and he still had work to catch up on.

It should’ve been his lazy Sunday today: a day full of him lounging around the penthouse with his darling wife.

Despite the exhaustion he felt, Sukuna couldn’t help but suddenly grin when he recalled how you slipped beneath his desk earlier: fluttering your lashes and giving him your softest puppy-dog eyes. He groaned as he thought about the way you parted your mouth and wiggled your hips, pleading to help him "relieve some stress" while he worked (in exchange for some spending money, of course).

How could he refuse such a sweet offer from his adorable wife?

Sukuna’s throat tightened as the memory of how pretty your plump lips looked wrapped around his heavy cock flashed through his mind. A sudden bolt of pleasure electrified his body as he sucked in a sharp breath.

“God,�� the man huffed as he felt his flaccid cock twitch beneath his grey sweats. He drew out a long, heavy sigh before leaning back and running a hand through his messy, red hair. Sukuna knew he had to finish the presentation for the new business plan before tomorrow…but his body continued to betray him with images of you in every position.

On your knees, your back, your stomach…

Sukuna sank into his seat as he bounced his leg, desperately trying to fend off the tension growing between his legs.

“Focus, damnit,” he hissed as he clenched his fists on the arms of his chair. Your husband swallowed thickly and closed his scarlet eyes, his mind beginning to wander as a light rain began to trickle over the roof of your Tokyo apartment…

Five Years Earlier

Sukuna sighed as he turned on his heel and strolled out of the private section of the decadent steakhouse. It’s been a few months since his ex-wife left him for another man - a few months of him trying and failing to start over again. He never saw himself as a romantic at heart…maybe when he was younger and not weighed down by the complexities of his career.

A career that cost him everything else in his life…

He still remembers the minute he stepped into his cold, empty home after a long business trip with only a note left behind.

“It’s just not working out between us”

The sentence sent a shiver down his spine as he approached the bar within the intricately decorated restaurant. Sukuna’s gaze lingered on a true beauty sitting at the end of the bar: a curvaceous woman clad in a black, tight dress and sparkling jewelry. He furrowed his brows when he heard her sniffle quietly.

“What can I get started for you, sir?” a dark-haired bartender inquired, pulling his attention away from the gorgeous piece of art before him. The CEO grunted as he flicked his eyes back to the rows of sparkling liquor displayed before him. He rested an elbow on the edge of the bar as he leaned forward.

“A Yamazaki, please. Neat,” he replied before shifting his gaze towards the mystery woman. Hot tears rolled down her plump cheeks as she gazed at her phone. The red-haired man frowned before he turned back to the bartender.

“And give her another one of whatever’s she’s having. Just put it on my tab,” he muttered in a low whisper while pointing towards you.

“Of course,” the bartender said before he began to prepare the two respective beverages. The CEO sighed as he drummed his fingers on the polished, wooden surface; his heart beating wildly as his palms grew clammy. Something that felt so familiar yet so distant began to grow inside of him the longer he stared at the woman: an all-consuming inferno that took root in his chest and spread from the top of his head to the soles of his feet.

He thanked the bartender for the drinks before turning to face you...only to watch as you hastily adjusted the strap of your purse over your purple rain jacket as you stomped out the revolving door. His eyes moved to find your phone resting on the surface of the bar. Sukuna's brows pinched together as he hesitated for a split second, as he walked over. A text was pulled up on your phone:

“I’m sorry. I think we should see other people”

The man's eyes grew wide as the painful, aching memory came back to him. Sukuna gripped your phone as he found himself rushing towards you.

"Sir? Sir!" the bartender called after Sukuna in vain as he followed you towards the slowly revolving doors. He nearly cursed as an entire party flooded into the restaurant as soon as you slipped through, creating a nearly impenetrable wall to the exit. Sukuna perked his head up to see the hood of your rain jacket bobbing with every step to took.

He finally broke through the crowd and stumbled into the thick blanket of rain. Sukuna gritted his teeth as strong gust of wind nearly flung him back, the image of your jacket growing smaller with every step you took.

“Hey!” he shouted. The tall man grunted as you continued to walk on, the hood of your jacket weaving through yet another crowd. Sukuna sighed and rushed towards you, the rain soaking his slicked back hair and crisp suit. It wasn’t long before he caught up to you, his chest rising and falling as he raised his hand. You gasped and tensed when he rested his palm on your shoulder.

“Hey, you forgot-“

Sukuna’s eyes widened as you spun around on your heel and swung your fist into his stomach, a sharp pain rippling across his abs as he wheezed. You gasped when you watched him drop to his knees.

“Oh my God! I’m so sorry!” you said as he clutched his stomach. The muscular man huffed and wheezed as he caught his breath.

“It’s fine…I shouldn’t have grabbed you like that,” he coughed. Sukuna instantly relaxed when you suddenly dipped down, your jacket spread over your head as you tried to shield him from the rain. His rugged face softened he took in your gentle eyes and delicate face.

“You’ve got quite the right hook,” he chuckled with a slight wince. You laughed nervously and glanced down at your drenched heels. Sukuna cleared his throat as he slowly rose to his feet. The cold rain poured down his sharp features while he held your phone out towards you. Your eyes lit up as you took it from him, your fingertips brushing over his skin and sending a shiver down his spine.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” you asked worriedly as you tucked your phone into the pocket of your jacket. Sukuna paused at your genuine concern. No one has given him that look in quite some time...

“I’ll be alright,” he assured while scanning you up and down. “Are you okay?” Sukuna said as he took a step closer, looming over your smaller form. You swallowed thickly and nodded.

“I-I’m fine. I just wish I could repay you somehow,” you said while tucking your bottom lip beneath your teeth. How coquettish. Sukuna’s smile softened as he dipped his head a little lower to fully meet your gaze.

“How about we go somewhere dry first?" he murmured with a soft chuckle.

+++

Sukuna’s eyes widened when he heard the front door of the penthouse swing open. The sound of your heels clicking and bags rustling drew him out of his trance. He smiled when your soft face appeared in the doorway of his home office.

“Hi baby!” you squealed before gently putting your bags down. You paused and frowned when you took in the sight of him still glued to his chair. “Are you still working?” you asked. Sukuna’s smile faltered as he looked down.

“Maybe,” he muttered while drumming his fingers on the top of his thigh. Sukuna released a quiet sigh as he felt your curves glide over his lap and breasts smooth against his chest. He grinned as you slipped your arms around his shoulders and nuzzled your face into his thick neck, his own hands finding their way to caress your lower back.

“I wished you took better care of yourself, Ryō,” you confessed with a solemn whisper. Sukuna slowly pulled his head back, his brows furrowed as he felt you breathe against his neck. “You’re always working so hard…I just-” you paused and sighed heavily. “If only there was something I could do to help you…relax,” you said as you traced your fingertips along his chest with a tiny glint of mischief in your eye. Sukuna raised a brow as a his lips curved into a small smirk.

He loved it when you tried to act all coy.

You gasped when he suddenly lowered his hands and greedily squeezed your supple asscheeks. Your husband relished in the way you shivered as he grazed his warm lips over the shell of your ear.

“I can think of a few ways you could help…” he husked while tenderly kneading your plump ass. He smirked as you wiggled in his grasp, a look of pure arousal quickly forming on your face as you bit your lip. You tilted your head back as he let his lips linger over your neck, your smooth skin feeling like heavenly silk against his mouth as he grunted.

"It's been a while since we've spent some quality time together, hasn't it?" Sukuna rumbled while slowly bunching up the skirt of your dress. His eyes lit up with lust when he felt you wearing nothing but a thong underneath your already skimpy outfit.

“It’s been too long,” you breathed as he groaned while kissing behind your ear. Your hands gripped the fabric of his t-shirt as he dug his fingertips into your bum.

"Wrap those sexy legs of yours around my waist, sweetness," he purred before dipping his head back down and wrapping his lips over your pulse. His cock twitched against his briefs as he felt your barely clothed pussy grind over his crotch. "Yeah, just like that," Sukuna grunted as you slipped your legs around his tight hips, a spark of pleasure rushing through him as your sexes rubbed against each other. "Now...give me those sweet lips of yours," he whispered while tilting his head.

Sukuna smiled as you obediently parted your lips, his tongue soon slipping into your warm, slick cavern as he caught your mouth in a sloppy, passionate kiss. He groaned as you dug your nails into the back of his neck while slowly grinding your pussy against his aching dick, each swipe of your tongue around his driving him deeper into a lustful frenzy.

Your beloved's pupils grew wide when he pulled back, a thick string of spit connecting your puffy lips. He deeply gazed into your eyes before crashing into you once more, his tongue thrusting inside your mouth as the lingering taste of himself spread over his tastebuds. You squeaked as he slowly rose to his feet, the floor creaking beneath his steady footsteps as his cock threatened to burst just from the slightest graze of your soaked panties.

Sukuna grunted as he laid you down on the king-sized bed, his arms caging you in as he captured your bottom lip between his teeth.

"Fuck, I've missed this so much," he growled after gently tugging on your lip, his hands sliding on top of your thighs and pushing your dress over your puffy tummy. Your soft mewls cascaded from your pretty lips as your husband played with the thin band of your silky panties. "What are you thinking, pretty girl?" Sukuna whispered before kissing at the junction between your jaw and neck. He smirked against your pulse as you shivered against his feather-light touch.

"I...I want to suck your cock again," you moaned and arched your hips upward. Sukuna blinked as his dick twitched at your lewd request. He flicked the tip of his wet tongue against your neck before he snapped the band of your thong against your plush love handles.

“So, my little slut wants to choke on Daddy’s cock for a second time today, hm?” your husband rumbled over your pulse. You keened at the friction between your two heated bodies as he dragged his erection against your cunt.

“Y-Yes,” you whined. You yelped when your husband suddenly laid a sharp smack across your bottom, your supple flesh jiggling beneath the sudden motion as he groaned.

“C’mon, baby girl. You know what to say,” he smirked before sucking a small, tender hickey behind your ear. You shivered at his delicious touch and you gently ground your hips against his.

“Yes, Daddy,” you gulped, your plush tits rising and falling as your pupils enlarged. Your husband chuckled as he slipped away, his back soon flush against the mountain of throw pillows as he spread his legs apart.

“Good girl. Now…c’mere,” he beckoned while gently patting his thighs. Sukuna chuckled as he watched you crawl towards him: the hypnotic sway of your hips and bounce of your breasts making his cock ache for your touch. He sighed with a half lidded gaze as you nestled yourself between his legs: your mouth visibly watering as you gazed upon the growing bulge below you.

“You remember the safe word and action from last time?” he husked while slipping his fingers through your hair. You nodded as quick breaths fell past your slightly swollen lips. “Good, good,” he murmured with a small, wry smirk. Your beloved could practically feel your heart racing beneath his fingertips.

“Go on, baby girl: show Daddy how pretty those lips look wrapped around his cock,” Sukuna encouraged while gently tugging on your locks.

You wasted no time: swiping your wet, pink tongue across your lips as you hooked your delicate fingers around the band of his pants and underwear. He shuddered when his cock sprang free and slapped against his trimmed bush - the sensation of your hot breath falling over his tip was enough to make his member throb.

Sukuna watched with a lustful, half-lidded gaze as you adjusted yourself, your lips just barely grazing over the red, weeping tip of his dick before you littered it with small, quick kitten licks.

You gave him a coquettish smile before gently pressing your soft lips to his flush tip. Your husband groaned as you let your mouth linger before lapping at his dribbling slit. Sukuna grunted as a wave of pleasure washed over him when you wrapped your tight fist around the base of his shaft and slowly began to pump it while swirling your slick tongue around his head.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he hissed through gritted teeth as he felt your warm palm glide along his length as you painted his tip with your spit. Sukuna clenched his jaw as he felt you squeeze his base each time your fist came back down, jolts of arousal shocking through his throbbing sex as he tightened his grip on your hair.

“Mmm, that’s my good girl,” he whispered with a smirk while bucking his hips forward. A wet squelch fell from your mouth as his cock slipped past the tight ring of your lips, the underside of his shaft sliding over your soft tongue as you squeaked. Sukuna moaned as you hollowed your puffy cheeks, the divine suction making his dick twitch inside your tight cavern. Your eyes widened when he suddenly grabbed both sides of your head and eagerly began to thrust into your tender, warm mouth.

“Fuck, yes,” Sukuna growled as he threw his head back, the slight gag that erupted from your throat only spurning him to fuck your face even more. Spit messily seeped past your lips and dribbled onto the inside of his taut thighs and patch of dark hair. Your eyes grew half-lidded as you sank your nails into the top of his thighs, his cock plunging deep inside your tight throat as Sukuna heaved.

“Love how fucking deep you take my cock,” your husband groaned as he felt his thick shaft twitch against your hollowed cheeks.

He watched your expression and hands when he heard you gag again, only to moan when he saw you eagerly bob your head up and down his shaft in time with his sharp, feral thrusts.

“Shit, baby,” his voice faltered as his balls tightened against your soft chin. A low groan rose from his throat as he felt the knot in his lower stomach grow tighter with every snap of his hips. His hands fisted your soft, luscious hair as his heart pounded faster and faster, his mind growing numb as he felt his cock stiffen within the snug vice of your raw throat.

Sukuna’s jaw went slack the moment you moaned around his length, his cock lodged deep inside your warm esophagus as a wave of pleasure cascaded over him.

“Fuck, (Y/N)!” your love snarled as he kept your lips pressed against the hilt of his cock. You moaned around his length while he painted your throat with thick, white ropes of his seed. You fluttered your eyelashes as you audibly gulped down every last drop of his warm cum, your nails still sinking into his ivory skin as you flared your nostrils. Sukuna shivered as he kept his fingers wrapped between your locks, the feeling of your lips and mouth wrapped around his softening dick absolutely heavenly.

He slowly blinked his eyes open, his vision slightly blurred as he locked eyes with his darling wife. The corners of his mouth turned up as he gently stroked your cheeks while his cock softened inside your snug throat. You slowly pulled your head off of his length, curling your lips inward as you swallowed a drop of cum that lingered on your tongue. Sukuna groaned and narrowed his eyes when you showed him your pink, pristine muscle.

“Mmm, I knew you’d take every drop,” he chuckled before gently slapping his cock against your plump cheek. “My pretty, little slut,” Sukuna husked as he watched the messy trail of spit and cum glide down your face. You gasped when your husband suddenly pounced on you, his eyes hungrily raking over every curve and roll of your luscious body as he breathed against your neck.

“Now…allow me to return the favor,” he purred in a low, deep voice. You shivered when he nibbled on your earlobe as his hands slipped the rest of your dress over your breasts and shoulders. His cock was already twitching again as he rolled the fabric over your voluptuous form, his eyes drinking in every roll and dip of your body.

A quiet mewl fell past your lips as he ripped your bra off and tossed it aside, your slick panties following not long after. You shivered as he traced his fingertips down every dip and curve of your sides as he deeply inhaled against your neck.

“God, you have no idea how much I’ve missed the taste of you,” he groaned. His mind grew dizzy as the scent of vanilla and rose petals filled his nostrils…the urge to have that scent rubbed onto him growing stronger with each passing second he remained on top of you. You raised your brows when he suddenly leaned back. His eyes glowed with mischief as a wicked idea popped into his mind.

“Hold on,” Sukuna grunted before he slipped off the bed. He heard you shift on the bed as he walked over to the nightstand. A smirk stretched across his face as he pulled out a pair of scarlet, fuzzy handcuffs. Your husband chuckled when he saw your face flush as he held the device up with a single, thick finger while strolling back over.

The bed creaked as the hulking man climbed back on top of you, his muscular thighs caging you in as he gave you a wry, seductive grin. You bit your lip as you held your hands above your head and shifted beneath your beloved.

“Just remember: if it’s too much then say the safe word,” Sukuna reminded you with a husky whisper. He watched you shiver as he threaded the chain of the handcuffs behind one of the metal links of the headboard. You nodded vigorously as your chest rose and fell with every heavy breath you took.

“I promise I’ll let you know,” you murmured as he clasped the fuzzy cuffs around your wrists. Sukuna’s smile softened for a brief moment before his devilish smirk returned. His scarlet eyes flicked down to the sacred space between your legs, his mouth watering at the sight of your glistening lower lips.

"My my...are you really this wet just from sucking my cock?" he sneered before swatting his hand over your puffy clit. You moaned and thrusted your hips forward, your legs trembling with a mix of pain and pleasure. "Mmm such a needy whore for my dick- I fucking love it," your husband chuckled before planting his lips on the junction between your jaw and neck.

His cock twitched back to life as he suckled on your soft skin, drawing soft, delicate moans and squeals from your pretty lips. Your breath hitched when he slid his large hand down your puffy belly and dipped his fingers against your sex. He grinned against your neck as he heard the all too familiar squelch of your desperate, aching cunt.

"Oh, baby," Sukuna groaned beneath your neck as he slid two of his thick fingers between your wet lower lips. You whined and ground your hips against his hand, your brows furrowed in desperation for his touch. "You like it when I move my fingers like this...hm?" he mused before suddenly pressing his thumb over your bundle of nerves. Your harsh cry of pleasure rolled through the dimly lit room as he wrapped his lips below the hickey he just adorned upon your skin.

Sukuna couldn't help but smile at just how cute you were: your high-pitched moans, the way your hips bucked and wiggled even at the slightest stroke of his digits.

"You want my fingers inside you, sweetheart?" he teased against your collarbone while spreading your folds apart, your warm arousal drenching his two digits as your hole pulsed against his smooth fingertips.

You whined and nodded, only to yelp when he pinched your nipple with his free hand.

"Ah, ah - remember to use your words, (Y/N)," Sukuna purred before taking your nipple between his wet lips. Your legs jiggled as he swirled his thumb around your clit in time with circling your perky nipple with his warm, slick muscle.

"F-Fuck yes! I want your fingers, your cock...I want everything you have to stretch me open!" you wailed and arched your chest into his touch. Sukuna's eyes widened, not expecting you to break so vividly. Your nipple slipped away from his mouth as his lips curled into a devious grin.

"Is that so?" he murmured with a hungry glint in his eye. You tilted your head back and strained against the handcuffs as your beloved slowly dipped his two thick, wide digits between your walls. Sukuna gritted his teeth as your hot, greedy pussy sucked him in.

"Fuck, can't believe after all this time, your cunt’s still this fucking tight," he breathed against the mound of your breast as he shoved his digits down to the knuckles. Your tits jiggled as you inhaled sharply, your slick dripping past the lining of your raw entrance as he began to slowly pump his fingers inside you. Sukuna swallowed thickly as his cock throbbed in anticipation of being swallowed whole by your tight, gummy walls.

"D-Daddy," you keened as he dragged his long fingers inside your pliable cunt, each stroke more rough and eager than the last. A deep rumble rose from Sukuna's throat as he kissed and nipped down your abdomen, several bitemarks stretched across your tummy before he dipped his head even lower. He grinned ear to ear as you hooked your ankles around his neck, your plush thighs caging him in as he flicked the tip of his tongue over your puffy bundle of nerves.

"Ah!" you cried as he curled his fingers against your spongey g-spot. Your juices messily gushed all over his palm as you practically bounced yourself on his fingers. He gazed directly into your half-lidded eyes as he puckered his soft lips around your bud. His eyes rolled back as the sweet scent of your musk wafted through his nostrils as he played with your drenched cunt.

"Hgn, R-Ryō. F-Feels so good," you panted wildly as he swiped his tongue back and forth between your folds. He picked up the pace of his fingers as he slowly rolled your clit with his long muscle, the taste of you making his mouth water for more of your delectable juices.

"God, you taste divine," he breathed deeply before diving back in, his licks growing more sloppy as he pounded his fingers against your soft cervix. A faint pink dusted over your husband's cheeks as he moved his head back and forth. You gasped as he flattened his tongue over your juicy bud, your walls gripping his digits in a strong vice in reaction to his lewd ministrations.

"Ryōmen," you gasped as he painted quick, messy strokes over your clit while he curled his fingers deep inside you. Sukuna smirked when he felt your walls start to pulse, instantly pulling his drenched lips away as he stilled his digits inside your warm canal. Your eyes shot open as you flared your nostrils. "Ryō!" you keened as you tried and failed to fuck yourself on his wide fingers.

You instantly stopped and trembled when he nibbled on the patch of stretch marks adorning the inside of your thigh. His eyes burned with a deep, insatiable lust as he licked a bold stripe over the fresh bite mark laced into your plush leg.

"Patience is virtue, my dear," he rumbled before swiping his tongue across his lips, savoring the sweetness of your nectar before he audibly gulped it down his throat. Your skin was ridden with goosebumps as he slid his fingers out of your fluttering walls, a thick string of your arousal clinging to his fingertips before he slid his palms over your luscious hips.

Sukuna adored the way your bottom lip poked out ever so slightly as tears of pleasure laced your thick lashes.

"Aw, what a precious look you're wearing," your beloved semi-mocked as he lined his flush tip to your entrance, the sound of your slick making him as he smeared it across his smooth head. Sukuna took a deep breath as he squeezed your waist while sinking his cock past the lips of your entrance: inch by mouthwatering inch.

Your husband leaned his face down as he watched your brows pinch together and lips part to make way for your gorgeous moans. He licked his lips again before leaning close to your ear.

"But I love the face you make when I fill you with my cock even more," he grinned deviously just as he buried himself down to the hilt. Sukuna closed his eyes as he became completely drunk on the feeling of your snug heat hugging his thick, throbbing shaft. He swore he could erupt right now with how tightly your walls gripped onto his hard length.

Your husband drew out a long exhale, his hot breath falling against your cheek as he drew his hips back before snapping them forward. You moaned loudly as your eyes rolled back into your skull, your rolls and curves jiggling each time your beloved's hips slapped against yours. Sukuna released a gutteral groan as he fucked you with a slow, steady rhythm.

"You feel me deep inside you, baby?" the red-haired man grunted as he pressed his hand down on your cute belly. You only answered with a high-pitched cry as his hard length stretched your walls apart. Sukuna nipped at your earlobe as he pressed down even more, your pussy clenching around his shaft at his small action. "Feel my fat tip pounding against your cervix, hm?" he smirked before sliding his hands from your hip and stomach to beneath your knees.

Your squeals echoed through the bedroom as he tilted your legs up, your plump breasts squishing against your knees as the bed frame creaked with every feral thrust of his sharp hips. Sukuna's chest heaved as his muscular body tensed above you, his fat balls slapping against your slick crack as he fucked your puffy cunt completely raw. You screamed and thrashed as his mushroom-like tip massaged your g-spot each time his hips met with yours.

"Fuck, you're so gorgeous," he grunted as he gazed into your wet, glossy eyes. The chain of the soft handcuffs clinked against the bedframe as he roughly slammed his dick inside your pulsing heat.

"R-Ryō! I'm so close!" you moaned and arched your back as your soft walls clenched on his girthy shaft. Sukuna clenched his sharp jaw as his hands squeezed the back of your plush knees, the divine suction of your slick pussy causing a low growl to rise from his throat. He gritted his teeth as he captured your lips in a heated kiss - your warm tongues rubbing in a sensual dance as he picked up the pace even more.

"Cum for me, (Y/N). Soak my cock before I fucking breed you," he snarled against your puffy lips as he slammed his cock into your raw hole with an insatiable hunger. His eyes glowed with desire as he watched you unravel beneath him: your head falling to the side as a beautiful moan echoed through the room. Sukuna's thrusts faltered as your pussy squeezed his cock so hard he nearly came with you.

"R-Ryōmen..." you cooed and babbled as your plush cunt convulsed around his painfully hard shaft. Your husband furrowed his dark brows as his dick twitched between your pulsing walls, your supple cheeks clapping incessantly as he eagerly fucked you through your orgasm.

"Fuck, (Y/N)," he breathed as he felt you drench his member and lower stomach with your warm arousal. Your moans grew louder as he pumped his cock into your overstimulated sex - the tight feeling in his dick growing unbearable as his balls tightened against your ass. He watched as you closed your eyes, only to give a powerful thrust into your squelching pussy.

"Look at me, baby - look at me while I fill your perfect pussy," he growled ferally as his cock throbbed and swelled, his breathing ragged against your neck with every passionate thrust. The second your gentle gaze met with his, the cord in Sukuna's taut, lower stomach finally snapped.

"(Y/N)!" he roared as he kept his cock stuffed as deep as he could within your intoxicating heat. It felt like every muscle...every fiber of his being tensed as he shot streams of thick, potent cum into your stretched out hole. "Yes," Sukuna groaned as he shallowly thrusted into your core while he painted your walls a creamy white.

"Mmm, Daddy," you gasped and shivered as he shoved his hips forward for the last time, his tip glazing your cervix with a few loose drops of his seed. The room seemed to spin around him as his body trembled with pure bliss - his skin coated with a thin sheen of sweat as he rested his forehead against yours.

Your warm breaths collided as he slowly loosened his grip on the back of your knees. Your supple legs fell on their side of his abdomen, they’re trembling not going unnoticed by your love. He sighed as your cunt wrapped snugly around his softening length as your noses rubbed against each other.

"Do...you...feel better now?" you asked between heavy pants. Your soft voice filtered into his ears like a gentle, soothing breeze. Sukuna's lips melted into a small grin before he tilted his head and captured your lips in a tender kiss.

"Much better," he chuckled deeply.

----

Thank you for reading! ❤️

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[t0jivs]

dhmu thinking ab heian era!sukuna fucking u in doggy while his lower set of arms wraps around your torso & his upper set puts u in a headlock 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

[sleepypandazzz09]

Wtf is up with Sukunas expressions

[t0jivs]

meowwwww

✧ ⁺˳ cw. fem! reader, praise, size kink, fıngering, dirty talk, oral fixation, mdni.

“easy, easy,” sukuna groans, having you laid on his broad, empty lap. you’re straddling him, chewing on your bottom lip as he’s knuckles deep into your drooling cunt. already, a clear sheet of slick coats down a single finger of his and you’re twitching from his hold. a cocky grin paints against his lips as one of his free hands attach to your waist. “ah, c’mon. not that bad. ‘s just one finger, princess.”

“y- your fingers are s-so thick, ‘kuna,” you babble out in broken words, and it doesn’t take long before your muscles tighten. indeed, he had much length to his fingers. he was easing you up because just moments ago, you insisted on how you could easily take him on the first try. of course, he decided to help you out anyway, finding amusement in how you’re already about to gush out from just a single digit. the stretch was immaculate, your tummy churns in a line of zig zags as you feel him slowly insert yet another finger inside. “fuck, ‘s long.”

with a breathy chortle, he makes you slump forward into his chest. “such a weak girl,” and his voice pitches against your ear — his breath, hot and fanning near the soft lobe of your ear. “if you can barely handle two fingers, what makes you think you can take two of my cocks, little one?”

your moans become more loud, echoing through the bouncy walls of his devilish, isolated chambers.

your body fails to remain still, grinding against his hand directly underneath you. “k- kunaaa,” you huff, your own jaw becoming loose and dangling itself agape.

it was so delicious . . the stretch, oh the stretch,

the way his two fingers curl into a salacious circular motion, rotating around the goopy insides of your sopping pussy. you were weak, so so weak.

he groans, hearing the slosh slosh squelches your own mess sings from the impact. “hah, ‘s good. i can take one more, please.”

chuckling, his lips press against your forehead. “hm, dunno. maybe i should take ‘em out..”

“s- sukuna,” you whimper, hearing him snickering at your desperate plea. your walls were more clingy than you were on a daily basis, sticking against the texture of his fingers like glue. with your face buried into the crook of his neck, you gasp once you feel the alleviated pressure arise furthermore. “pleaseplease, more. i can take another finger. need another finger.”

“girl,” he snarls, a single fang baring and you jolt into his chest once he spanks your pussy once.

the brief sting that follows makes you throb and it scratches such a good itch in your brain. “what did i tell ya? you don’t need, you want. repeat that sentence for me, pretty.”

“i— i want another finger inside,” you correct yourself, your eye twitching at his familiar sass. sukuna remained seated on his notorious throne, sexily manspread with you on top of him also. your legs felt like mush practically, and the stimulation has you swooning for more. gasping, you bite down on the breaking skin of your lip once more. “want it, ryo. want you.”

“good grief, does fingering make ya forget manners too?” he slyly grins, ruby red eyes peering into the depths of your precious soul.

you sigh, knowing what that meant. as he’s still got two fingers tucked away deeply into your cunt, your arms sling over his tense shoulders. “p- please.”

“atta girllll,” he praises, another one of his hands tugging against the fabric of your blouse.

as you still make a cute attempt at rocking your hips against his lap. he slowly inserts another thick finger inside. tightening around each one individually, you whine before your entire body jitters.

sukuna chuckles deeply against your ear, feeling the claws of your nails seep into the flesh of his arm. “oooh, so three is the limit. i see,” and within three seconds, his digits pull out of your cunt. a slimey string of your filth sticks against his fingers. as he looks down with an utmost hungry gaze, he brings his fingers up to his mouth before sniffing them.

“mhm,” and with glossy eyes, you stare as the demon pops his three fingers right into his mouth. you’re still taking your seat on his lap, watching as his forked tongue devours your enchanted taste. slit eyebrows furrow in arousal before he takes it back out, bringing his fingers toward your quavering lips. “open. taste it, girl,” and as your lips happily part, he slides two fingers inside your mouth, watching you suck against them. he groans, imagining you were putting your cute throat to use on his cock— not his fingers. your pink tongue swishes around, curling against the digits and you taste the bitter taste of your own sweet. “messy fuckin’ woman. taste how dirty you are for me? yeahhh, lick it all up ‘cause ‘m gonna put ‘em right back in. gotta train this weak cunt for the real thing.”

your head bobbles a bit— every few seconds sukuna’s lengthy fingers would thrash back against your uvula, causing you to almost gag. as you lick them clean, tasting his own syrupy saliva in the process, he quickly pulls them out before stuffing them right back into your greedy cunt as promised.

sukuna raises a brow as your head lowers onto his chest. “eh,” and as your tongue playfully licks against his neglected nipples, his breath hitches. you catch him off guard and he grunts at the suddenly sensitivity. “fuck are ya doin’ brat. didn’t tell you to s-suck on . . mhm, those.”

he doesn’t exactly pull you away.

instead, he drags your head closer, looking down embarrassed as your mouth latches onto his thickset pecs like a leech.

it felt odd, strangely new.

you’re sucking against his swollen perky nipples, lolling your tongue around before that’s when he abruptly pulls you off. with a new look of neediness in his eyes, sukuna watches as a trail of your own spit departs from his nipples. you leer back up at him with a teasing grin forming on your lips and he scoffs.

sukuna ryōmen was flustered..

“y’er .. fuckin’ weird,” he grouses, and once he sees your growing simper, he uses a hand to make your head move back toward its former placement near his now dampened pecs.

“keep .. doin’ that. never told ya to stop, little girl. phew, i- i liked that.”

[subehind]

In modern Japanese, camera is just called 'camera' = カメラ - the same as English, it is a borrowed word.

But Sukuna is old af. He calls it 写真機 (shashinki) - literally 'photography device' - an outdated word from Meiji period I don't think anybody uses anymore.

Aw, A++ writing, my inner linguist nerd is purring

[on-wine-dark-seas]

The Invitation

Dedicated to the little Black girl who wanted to be all things when the world told her she was nothing. You are everything. 🍯

🪧 Summary: 1050 AD, Heian Era. One full moon, Sukuna meets a dancing storyteller at the Hida Harvest Festival. But after a tragically violent evening robs her of everything, she winds up in a strange alliance with the King of Curses as his guest. 📚 Series: Sonder 🔞 Rating: Explicit ⚠️️ Warning[s]: Rape/Non-Con [not from Sukuna don't worry], blood, gore, description of wounds and dead bodies, cannibalism, recreational drug use [ganja, psilocybin, opium], slow-ish burn, hurt/comfort, PTSD, revenge, catharsis, eventual romance, eventual smut, Ryōmen Sukuna is his own warning. 💋 Pairing[s]: Sukuna x The Writer [⛩️🍯] 🎧 Playlist: [ the invitation ]

⛩️ AO3 𑁍 Parallax OCs 𑁍 Sonder OCs ⛩️

🍯 I. Hankali

     Sukuna’s lips are curled into a sneer as he stares down at the shivering gaggle of priests kneeling at his feet. He towers over them, his shadow outstretched like an ominous hand, crimson eyes hard and merciless as he peels away the veneer of their presence to sink his teeth into their motivations.

     Fear. These witless worms are motivated by fear, naught else. He half expects one of them to piss themselves any moment.

     Sukuna has lived a life of solitude from birth, and one thing solitude has taught him is that his own strength is what is reliable. Friendships, companions, love, all of those are useless tethers beneath his scope of interest and control. No one invites him to things, because his lethal reputation has impressed upon them that he does not care. The people of Hida fear his power, and so they grovel to curry favor in hopes of gaining his protection. He is a sorcerer, but to them he is a god.

     Hapless lichen and unmarked graves are testament of his power. A sea of blood for him to drink from endlessly. Meat to be torn and swallowed, sweet and succulent and limitless in its variety.

     What care has he for petty festivals and sniveling proselytizing? He cannot make their crops grow nor their cattle healthy. He does not control those forces of nature, but these provincial types are superstitious about jujutsu.

     And there are no other sorcerers who can lay claim to the feats he has accomplished.

     His sneer becomes a leering grin.

     “I accept your invitation,” he says in an even voice, deep and resonant in the temple he has claimed as home for most of his adult life. He watches with disdain as he sees the priests breathe collective sighs of relief.

     “We thank his lordship for his consideration,” the head priest says, forehead pressed on the cool stone of the floor. Sukuna says nothing in response. He merely waits.

     “I’m sure you do,” he says laconically after a stretch of fearful silence. “Get out.”

     Thus are the priests dismissed, their limbs intact, and their numbers the same as when they arrived. They consider this a blessing in and of itself, scurrying out of the shrine like startled insects. Sukuna watches them go, his smirk turning to a pensive frown.

     “Mercy, my lord?” Uraume’s cool voice is amused. Sukuna huffs out a breath.

     “There is no joy in killing frightened peasants. Aside, there will be blood aplenty at this harvest festival of theirs. Blood is the only thing gods demand in tribute, after all.”

     And Sukuna is fair starved for sacrifice.

     The weeks leading up to the festival are hectic. With the Five Empty Generals and the Sun, Moon, and Star Squads eliminated, the capital, and by extension Hida, is thrown into chaos. Bandits roam the surrounding areas, waylaying travelers and refugees alike. Temples are packed to capacity to give alms to the starving and destitute. Misery permeates the air as the storm of Sukuna’s fury is felt throughout Heaven and Earth.

     No one opposes him in the wake of this war, and he consolidates his power, taking tribute and extracting iron clad binding vows to secure and fortify his position.

     But by the gods he can’t bring himself to care about any of it. It feels pointless to him. It nettles at his nerves, these petty political squabbles between clans of sorcerers who could not stand against him in the end. The Sugawara clan is especially in disarray, having lost their best sorcerers to Sukuna’s lethal domain.

     Would that he could bring himself care, though. It’s as if the victory that should have been sweetest to savor has turned to stale ash in his mouth, and no amount of blood drinking can curb it.

     Something is irritating his spirit, and he’s not sure what.

     Uraume fields requests both in the form of face-to-face audiences with supplicants and distraught nobles desperate to hold onto their power; Uraume also fields written requests. Sukuna has so far been offered vast swathes of rice paddies, fields, and even cattle. Where he once had to hunt and scrape in the wilds for his food, now he has more than enough in his stores to throw feasts. But he does not do this. Anyone who would be invited to attend would only do so out of fear of how he’d respond should they refuse. Empty fear does little to sweeten his appetite. He has missed the scent and taste of true terror between his teeth.

     It’s frustrating. So, he attends this stupid harvest festival as a guest of the highest honor: the God of Hida. Wielder of Storm and Flame. All manner of ostentatious titles he would never choose for himself, but he bears the weight of them all the same. Even the title, Ryōmen Sukuna, is not a name he chose, but it certainly suits him. It evolved from his deeds. He had been born a cursed and nameless wretch to a mother whose face was not even a blur in his memory. All he knows is the turning point of cognizance in his life, and the bloody present.

     He sits amongst them, an impassive deity, inscrutable as the heavens that cursed him. Something stirs in his chest, makes his heart tighten uncomfortably. Will alone quells it, buries it too deep to be excavated without considerable aid, or his will. That unnamed feeling—that yearning—will be smothered in the salted earth of his heart like everything else.

     The festival itself is lavish, a surprise for such uncertain times, but Sukuna sees these people—these insects—seeking joy when it would be easier to succumb to the hand fate has dealt them: misery and death; their pointless existence snuffed out and forgotten. Sukuna allows himself a smile at the thought. Yes, how fitting.

     He sips his plum wine, smokes his kiseru, and stares at the nameless faces and listens to the empty and pointless chatter. His heart beats sluggishly as the contents of his kiseru finally take hold, dulling the sharpened edges of agitation flaying his nerves.

     There’s a commotion at the entrance to the headman’s hall. Affronted gasps, mocking laughter. Sukuna knows that voice, and suddenly he reaches for the ornate lacquered box at his side, refills his kiseru, and takes a long, slow drag of it.

     She’s naked. She’s always fucking naked. Sukuna doesn’t know or care, but she’s coming at him, her eyes shining with something he thinks is madness, and suddenly the distance is closed, and he feels strong arms go around him, gets a deep inhale of her scent: rosewater and her natural musk. Pleasant, but her arms around him, her fingers threading through his hair, her grating voice droning on and on about loneliness and love and other such drivel—the sharp edges of his nerves lash out before he realizes it.

     Yorozu tumbles onto the floor, her open haori stained with her own blood, a slash mark across her chest, breasts stained in a curtain of crimson spilling from a wound that may as well have been made with a true blade. Sukuna should find this beautiful, but he doesn’t care. He’s just well and truly agitated, now.

     There’s a fearful silence in the room as Yorozu climbs to her knees, swaying from the blood loss. Her face is a frightening rictus of ecstasy, as if she is having a religious experience.

     “Ah, Sukuna!” She sighs in deep satisfaction. “You are the most magnificent thing! An honor to be struck down by your hands. I will spend the rest of our lives making sure you never know loneliness again, beloved.”

     Sukuna frowns, the bridge of his nose wrinkling. Beside him, he feels the chill of Uraume’s cursed energy, like prickling fingers of winter in the form of their aura alone.

     “If you’ve any decorum,” Uraume says in a warning tone, “you will attire yourself in a manner befitting the occasion and not embarrass my lord with your provincial ignorance.”

     Yorozu should be angry, but when one is a powerful sorcerer, words of snarling lapdogs mean precious little. She gives Uraume as maddening smile.

     “Oh, but have you not heard? I too decimated the Sun, Moon, and Stars Squad and have been accorded a place of honor amongst the Fujiwara for this festival. What role do you play here, Uraume? I am to be seated at Lord Sukuna’s right hand, as is my right!”

     Sukuna snorts derisively.

     “You talk too much,” he says in an exasperated tone. “Be seated and be silent.”

     Surprisingly, Yorozu complies, arranging herself like some sort of creature at his side, giving Uraume a simpering smirk while they roll their eyes in obvious disdain and disgust. Sukuna is just thankful the woman is heeding his words and remaining blessedly silent. He focuses his thoughts again.

     The entertainment for the evening is interesting. There is the traditional and ritualistic, which he watches and listens to with half an ear. He feels wholly apart from the festivities, as if he is some sort of interloper and not an honored guest. And all around him is the stench of nervous fear. Fear that he might do something unimaginably horrific should any displease him. He does nothing to dissuade them, but still…all this sweating and kowtowing is unnecessary and grates his nerves.

     It’s not until he sees the performers arranging an interesting set of drums he’s never seen before that he sets his annoyance aside in favor of his curiosity. The players have also changed. Arrayed in strange costumes of grass skirts and anklets with bells. Their skin is as dark as rich, fresh-turned earth; the men have strong and stern miens; but Sukuna detects something submissive about them. They look to one of the other performers.

     Sukuna’s gaze follows theirs as the lead dancer emerges. There’s a thump in his ears like a heartbeat. Her cursed energy blazes around her in a steady flame, moving with a fluidity Sukuna has seen only in himself.

     Who is she?

     Sukuna’s gaze falls like a weight on her and he suppresses a smirk when he sees her shift her body weight onto the balls of her feet. There’s a tinkling of bells from the thick ankle bracelets she wears, but Sukuna knows a tense posture when he sees it. She speaks to the drummers in a tongue he doesn’t recognize, hands animated in giving direction. Sukuna keeps his eyes on her. Skin like burnished umber from what he can see, her breasts high and proud in a bra made complete of cowrie shells. He can also make out the tattoo on her back, a symbol he doesn’t recognize. Is she a criminal of some kind as well? There’s a crown of cowrie shells on her head, affixed to soft buckskin straps that obscure her face from him, but he can make out her lips.

     The dancer grows more interesting by the moment from her appearance alone, her eyes dark and sparkling, her braids falling around her in a sea of black and gold, framing her cowrie-obscured face that he catches glimpses of when she turns: high cheekbones, and sculpted soft nose, and lips shaped like a perfect bow. When she smiles, which is frequently, Sukuna marvels at the perfect whiteness of her teeth, the way her smile seems a power all on its own. There is something inside of her, something yet to be tapped, and he wonders.

     He waits.

     A hush falls over the entire crowd, faces illuminated by the massive bonfire burning in the center of it all.

     Then, the dancer opens her mouth and begins to sing. Sukuna’s brows go up at the power of her voice, a clear trailing of notes and melody in a tongue he doesn’t recognize but somehow the tone of her song reaches him. He understands her meaning, sees it written in her smile as those foreign words slip from her mouth like a lure. She commands the music with skill, the primordial drumbeats whispering to thread with the melody she sings. Sukuna can feel the power in her, that thing inside her that he can’t quite place trembling like a chrysalis on the verge of opening.

     When she begins to dance, Sukuna understands. By his side, Yorozu follows his gaze, notes how he never takes any of his eyes off of the girl. Her lip curls in open disdain and disgust.

     The dance becomes faster, the drums carrying the dancer into a frenzy that is no wilder and more beautiful than a summer storm. Sukuna can see a sheen of sweat on the girl’s back, right between her undulating shoulder blades. She commands her small stage with consummate skill, executing complicated footwork, the bells around her ankles creating a counter rhythm to the drumbeat whipping everyone into an excited and breathless frenzy. Her cowrie shell crown’s straps are flung about her head like a halo when she executes hairpin turns on the balls of her bare feet, rapid and surefooted, affording the crowd a glimpse of the sculpted face beneath. Her feet, stained crimson with henna, tap out a counterrhythm to the drums in one sequence, creating a synergy the likes of which Sukuna himself has never seen nor heard. The drummers are not sorcerers, but there’s something in their playing that bolsters the dancer. The flames climb higher and higher, and Sukuna suddenly finds himself breathing with her. Inhale. Exhale. Controlled diaphragm as she chants and sings louder, not even sounding the least bit winded.

     The crowd feels it too. They clap; they stamp their feet.

     Sukuna can feel the chrysalis inside of her vibrating. Her soul is vibrating. The fire crackles and seems to dance higher and brighter. The drums are in his blood, pumping his heart, making his pulse race with the same breathless anticipation he gets just before a fight.

     ���Exquisite,” Sukuna says breathlessly to himself. Yorozu’s brow knits in consternation as she gazes up at him sharply. He’s still watching the dancer. Worse yet, his lower hand resting on the floor beside him is tapping in time to the rhythm. She’s sure he would hum along if he knew the damn melody of the barbaric chanting and yowling the girl is doing.

     The smell of spring and bounty permeates the air as the music swells, and the girl’s feet move faster in more complicated patterns, a test of endurance, an expression of strength. Sweat slicks her dark, umber skin. Sukuna sees the softness of her body, the undulation of her waist and hips, the way every curve moves with its own fluid rhythm and knows she will taste so tender and succulent between his teeth. The salt of her sweat makes him salivate a little at the thought.

     But also, she is gifted with immense power. He can feel it. A latent potential as yet untapped, struggling to be born. All it needed was the right push and it would be free, and she would be formidable. It would be a waste to consume her for the fleeting pleasure of tasting her. Sukuna knows a rare delicacy when he sees one.

     No, he would have to do something else. He would need to find a way to savor her.

     Several times she dances near him, and he tenses, but there is something reverent in the way she looks at him through the curtain of cowrie shells from her crown; the way she smiles at him as if she is inviting him to join her; the way she always seems to be in supplication when she addresses him with the movements of her body. A bow, a flourishing gesture of the hands to highlight the enormity of him, little bits of acknowledgement that she knows him to be the sovereign presence here; the mystery of her being obscured when she turns away from him with fluid grace, and he wants to reach out and seize her, turn her back, and look into her face in full. There’s something sensual about her method of dancing, which he deduces to be a harvest tribute.

     He likes that.

     The music swells and blooms, and her soul blooms with it as she kneels in perfect reverence before him, sitting on her heels, hands pressed delicately to the floor, her forehead on the ground. Her bells and shells are silent. She doesn’t even shiver in his presence. Sukuna looks down at her, fascinating by the rhythm of her slow and deep breaths of exertions. This close, he gets a good look at the tattoo limned in her dark skin. The symbol at her nape interests him, and he almost reaches out to touch it.

     “Hm,” he says thoughtfully. Yorozu sucks her teeth in irritation. “You are a foreigner. What is your name, girl?”

     The dancer doesn’t move.

     “Do I have your permission to rise, my lord?” Her Japanese is accented, and she speaks slowly, but Sukuna understands.

     “You do,” he says, curiosity making him unusually tolerant this evening. The girl rises into a seated kneel, her eyes still respectfully downcast behind the curtain of cowrie shells, full lips parted. Sukuna wants to tear the crown from her head and see her face, but something about it is…hm.

     “My name is Šetû Asiri,” she says, her voice measured through steady breaths. “Though in your culture I suppose Asiri Šetû would be the appropriate introduction.”

     Sukuna tilts his head. “Take off your headdress.” He orders. Asiri stiffens briefly, momentarily taken aback by the bluntness of his command. Behind her, her drummers are a knot of tension and anxiety. Sukuna’s reputation is fearsome, and no doubt whatever caravans brought them here from their lands leagues and leagues away have been rife with myths about his whims.

     Asiri’s hands go to the cowrie shell crown, and slowly she pulls it from her head, braids tumbling free, her face bared in full. She keeps her eyes downcast, black lashes cresting on her high cheekbones. Her expression is neutral.

     And Sukuna cannot smell her terror or fear. Either she does not know him for what and who he is, or she does not care…or she’s a fool.

     Alternately, she can be as mad as Yorozu, but he highly doubts she is. He does not see it in the lines of her body, soft and sculpted by years of dance.

     “Look at me,” he says. There’s another tense silence following those words. Asiri breathes in and lifts her face and gaze to meet his. Eyes darker than forest pools past midnight, glimmering like polished obsidian. Sukuna sees the inscrutable void of the moonless and starless nights in her eyes. Eclipse eyes. Asiri holds his gaze steadily. Sukuna’s lower eyes flit to her neck, collared by a cowrie shell choker with pretty silver coins, and he watches as two beads of sweat roll down, pooling in the hollow of her clavicle before rolling down the plush curve of her breasts. He licks his lips before he realizes it.

     “Did my performance please you?” She asks steadily. Sukuna smirks but doesn’t answer. It is answer enough.

     “Where are you from?” He asks. Asiri hesitates.

     “Across the sea,” she says quietly. “Beyond the Silk Road. I would need a map of the world to show it to you.”

     Sukuna narrows his eyes, makes a pensive hum. Asiri remains kneeling, and the assembled crowd holds its collective breath. Sukuna steps down from the dais, onto the soft moss she’s conjured around herself with her dancing. The heat of the bonfire illuminates her skin, and his nostrils flare as he breathes deep. Her sweat is sweet, but he smells something else…a fragrance heady and warm, like night-blooming jasmine.

     Mm.

     “You may go,” he says. “You and your troupe may enjoy the festivities…with my blessing.”

     Asiri allows herself a small smile, pressing herself into an obeisant kneel, forehead to the floor. The shells that adorn her body click prettily.

     Behind Sukuna, Yorozu seethes.

     “Thank you, my lord,” Asiri breathes. She waits for him to be seated and rises from her kneel. Sukuna watches her return to her troupe, the musicians murmuring in that strange tongue, whispering and shooting nervous glances in his direction. He should kill them, but they are foreigners, and he foregoes his usual punishments. It will not do to profane these rituals with blood. Even he will not deign to be so greedy and blasphemous this night.

     “Did you see the size of him?” Ajani’s voice is rife with shock and not a little horror. “What manner of creature is he that they would worship him as a god?”

     Šetû smiles from behind her changing screen as her cousin continues to go on and on about the cultures and customs of the people, they find themselves performing for. It has been a long and arduous journey for their little family, but Šetû knows this place is where they can truly make a life for themselves.

     Away from the horrors plaguing their homeland. The horrors that took everything from them but the talent in their skulls.

     “I don’t know,” she says. “I thought he was kind of handsome. And he’s clearly a powerful man!”

     Ajani sucks his teeth in disgust. “You are too kind, Haji,” he says. “Remember what those priests said? He eats people.”

     Šetû shrugs into her abaya, a silky shift of oceanic blue, the collar and edges of the wide sleeves stiff with golden thread embroidery. She keeps on her dancing bells and places the cowrie shell crown reverently in her trunk. Then, she surveys herself in the shined pane of a beaten mirror, marveling at her reflection.

     “I’m sure those were just the frightened exaggerations of peasants,” Šetû says as she slips into a pair tabi and geta, humble gifts from the leaders of the village. She had been surprised at the taboo of displaying one’s naked feet in public. The four-armed man had been barefoot, even outside. Perhaps these customs only apply to their living gods.

     She steps from behind the changing screen, heaving a sigh.

     Their troupe, Na Waje, consists of her, her two brothers, Amadou and Yusuf, and two of her cousins, Ajani and Ajamu. For the last few years, it has been only them since their grandmother and uncle passed. Šetû cannot count how many foreign lands she has traveled across in the years since they packed their entire lives in their painted wagon filled with their instruments, clothing, and supplies, and their sturdy Mongolian steed to pull it, a gift of the Khan for their rousing performance under their endless sky. It has been hard going, but Šetû will not trade it for anything.

     Still, having stone walls and a proper bed would not go amiss.

     Šetû makes her way outside of their tent, which they set up on the outskirts of the village near their wagon and horse. Amadou has already secured dinner for the evening as he and Yusuf had gone hunting and fishing much earlier that day. The smell of roasting rabbits seasoned with the meager spices they’ve managed to hoard for themselves is enough to make Šetû’s mouth water. Yusuf has secured sacks of rice, and a pot of it bubbles over an additional fire.

     “Have any of you had any luck with the locals?” Šetû asks as she takes a seat on one of the logs arrayed around the campfire. Yusuf pokes at the rice with a grunt. Šetû laughs.

     “They worship a four-armed man who looks like he eats people,” Yusuf says with a sour look on his face. “I’d rather not make friends with such a superstitious bunch, if you don’t mind.”

     Amadou, the oldest of all of them, and their somewhat de facto leader, laughs.

     “Perhaps you should consider taking more time to get to know them. We are the foreigners in this land.”

     “We’re foreigners in every land,” Yusuf grumbles. There’s a collective groan as the twins come to join them and Yusuf’s sour face somehow—against all odds—grows even more pinched.

     “Here we go,” Ajani murmurs with a grin as he sits next to Šetû, who hides her smile in her mug of tea.

     “I was a djali!” Yusuf snaps. “A true scholar of the craft! I served noble families and was respected in every corner of the Mali Empire! I wore silks and walked in sandals made of the softest leather and exquisite beadwork. I was slated to be—”

     “—given an honor at the right hand of the King himself; we know!” The others finish in unison. There is a sizzling sound as fat drips into the fire from the roasting rabbits. Another pot holds a rich stew. Since coming to this foreign shore, finding ingredients that best remind them of home has been hard. But they’ve made good coin this month and so their supplies are plentiful.

     “Speaking of strange customs,” Ajamu says, gathering their bowls to serve rice and stew. “Did you see the woman next to him? Completely naked! Is that how these people celebrate the harvest?! And if she is his wife, how…immodest!”

     Šetû snorts into her tea. “No,” she says. “I saw the way the people were looking at her. I’m guessing nudity at public events is frowned upon even here, Ajamu.”

     “I didn’t mind the view,” Ajani says, earning an elbow to the ribs from his twin. He grins shamelessly. “She definitely had all of her best qualities on display.”

     “Yeah, and was practically ready to rip Šetû’s throat out when that giant monster spoke to her for a few minutes.”

     Šetû’s cheeks go hot. In truth she hadn’t noticed the nude woman’s venomous looks during the entire encounter. She’d been too afraid of offending Hida’s local deity. She thinks about the performance again: dust beneath her henna-stained feet, lost in the rhythm of her breathing to match the breath of the earth, her ears filled with the ancient rhythms of her homeland; four crimson eyes, glowing as bright as the flame she danced around, with a hunger she could not name; her head pressed to the ground in an obeisant kneel, a glimpse of very large bare feet, and thick bands of black ink around the ankles.

     Look at me.

     Šetû remembers looking up, so far her throat arched. He had been massive, looking down at her with a curiosity that reminded her of a tiger deciding on whether or not the lamb in its grasp would be a toy or food…or both. She remembers his face, black ink limned into the skin in sharp, thorny lines, emphasizing the divine sculpture of his high cheekbones, his nose, his strong chin.

     Four eyes, glowing like coals in the breeze, flaring bright.

     And the heat and energy that she felt from him had been oppressive. Not only was he massive, but whatever power he held was just as big. He frightened her.

     But more than that, he intrigued her.

     “Šetû are you daydreaming again?” Ajani asks, handing her a bowl. Šetû blinks slowly, a waking dreamer pulled from a reverie she had yet to finish processing. She takes the bowl with gratitude.

     “Well, it’s night,” she says. “So, no. I was just…thinking, is all.”

     Ajani’s brow furrows with concern, but he says nothing, taking his seat beside her. For a while, the family eats in silence, enjoying the bounty prepared by the elder cousins.

     “The headman gave us a gift for our performance,” Amadou says, breaking the silence as they eat. “A cask of their rice wine. I say we breach it tonight in celebration.”

     “There’s five of us,” Yusuf grumbles. “How are we to finish an entire cask of wine in one evening?”

     “Well, there’s no room for it in the wagons so we’re going to have to try,” Amadou says back with a smile. “I’d say we’ve earned a night of drunken respite! And the festival continues for another day. We’ve been permitted to participate in the rituals and festivities freely after our performance tomorrow.”

     Šetû feels her mind beginning to fade, Amadou’s voice turning into a drone. That oppressive energy is back, spilling into their camp like a chilling fog.

     Hida’s god is here.

     It’s frightening that none of them so much as heard a twig snap, but the conversation dies down as the four-armed deity’s shadow falls over them. Šetû shivers from his presence. There is something sinister about it, and whatever it is…it’s hungry. At that thought, she has an idea. She sets aside her bowl, jumping to her feet. She motions for the others to do the same.

     “Šetû,” Amadou whispers, “you’re the one who speaks their language best. Does he mean us harm?”

     “No, I don’t think so,” she answers. “But we should all kneel out of respect.”

     And so they do, and the god’s brows raise up in surprise. The youth beside him, whose presence feels like the first, dire fingertips of the bitterest winter, smirks.

     “My lord,” Šetû says from her kneel. “It is a surprise to see you here. How may we serve?”

     The god tilts his head, says nothing for a long while. Šetû’s knees are beginning to ache.

     “You may rise,” he says at last, as if he had been deliberating on something and finally came to a decision. “And resume your meal.”

     Šetû breathes a sigh of relief as they all climb to their feet and return to their seats. Šetû lingers a moment and gives the god a friendly smile.

     “Would you and your companion like to join us?” She asks. “We’ve plenty to spare, and we were just discussing breaching a cask of wine. Far more than needed for the five of us.”

     Here, in the full light of their own cookfire, Šetû takes an opportunity to look upon Hida’s living god. She isn’t quite sure what to make of him, really, and his expression is inscrutable. For a moment, there is only the crackling of the fire, a log pops, and the subtle hiss of moisture steaming out of it in the heat. Amadou’s jaw is tense, his body taut. Of all of them, he is the only one with any real combat prowess, as he once served in the city guard back in their homeland. He and Yusuf and the twins have protected them from the onslaught of bandits, gangsters, ruffians, and all manner of unsavory attackers over the years. They will not let Šetû come to harm.

     The god smirks, and Šetû is reminded of the first time she ever saw an animal slaughtered. His smile is the blade drawn across the trembling throat, spilling crimson vitae in its wake. She shivers and his nostrils flare.

     “You would offer me a seat by your fire?” He asks. “Do you know who I am?”

     Šetû blinks in obvious confusion.

     “Are you not…are you not the deity being honored at this festival? Ryōmen Sukuna?” She asks, genuinely puzzled. “It would be rude not to offer you a place by our humble fire. It would honor us, in fact.”

     The god—Sukuna—crosses his lower arms and Šetû grits her teeth on a surprised sound but her troupe is not so subtle. There is a subtle gasp of shock. She hadn’t noticed his physique up close before, but it is truly a marvel.

     “What’s this?” Sukuna asks, peering into the cook pot. Yusuf looks nervous but Amadou places a hand on his shoulder.

     “Well,” he says, steeling his courage much to the amusement of the mountain of a man before him. “In our homeland it’s called…naman sa.” He glances at Šetû, who smiles.

     “I guess the closest translation would be beef stew…but we didn’t have any beef on hand, and the local butcher would not sell to us. So we used rabbits we hunted.” She explains. Two crimson eyes regard her and she tries to maintain her composure under the weight of his gaze. A low rumble sounds in his chest, a sound that reminds her of a tiger purring. Pensive. Ajani and Ajamu gulp, clearly fearful.

     “I will join you,” Sukuna says and there is a collective breath of relief.

     From there, the strangest of meetings unfolds.

     Sukuna arrays himself like a king by the fire. Amadou moves to serve him, but he holds up a forestalling hand. Amadou’s brows go up in silent question. Was he not hungry?

     “I want her to serve me,” Sukuna says, pointing at Šetû who startles, but rises quickly to do so. Amadou’s brow knits in a frown but at his younger sister’s insistence he hands her the bowl. Carefully, she scoops heaps of rice into the bowl, then ladles a helping of the spicy rabbit stew over it. Sukuna’s lower eyes watch, going a little wide when he sees the stew on the rice but then takes the bowl from her proffered hands, admiring how she kneels to serve it to him. His large fingers brush her hands and heat blooms in her cheeks before she moves away to sit beside Ajani.

     “Hashi?” Uraume asks cooly. Amadou’s brows knit again, and he nods, fetching a fresh set of chopsticks for Sukuna to use. He doesn’t hesitate, the god of Hida begins to devour the food immediately.

     Everyone sits in silence, breathing slow, wondering just what they’d done to deserve his attention this evening.

     Sukuna clears his bowl in record time. Amadou has retrieved the cask of rice wine, and pours Sukuna a cup, which he uses to wash down his meal.

     Sukuna grins, eyes heavy-lidded, like a man sated.

     “That was delicious,” he purrs. “Which one of you made this?”

     Amadou bows. “It was me, my lord,” he says in his halting Japanese, speaking slowly. Of all of them, Šetû is the best at picking up languages, and they’ve not been in the country long. “Though it is my sister who crafts the recipes.”

     Sukuna glances at her again and she tries not to jump.

     “Uraume,” he says. “Get the recipe from this one.”

     “Of course, Lord Sukuna,” Uraume says, affording Šetû a smile that can only be described as chilly. She chews her lip nervously.

     “Well?” Sukuna grins, and they tense. “Don’t stop on my account. Do whatever it is you do when the locals aren’t bothering you.”

     The troupe glances at one another in confusion. How did they carry on when they’d been warned how dangerous this man is? That he has a capricious temperament and kills on a whim?

     The wine.

     It doesn’t take long, but the wine flows, and eventually, tongues loosen and tension eases enough for conversation to flow. Out of respect for Sukuna and his companion, they converse in Japanese to include them in the conversation.

     “How is it you wound up here?” Sukuna asks. “And what was it you were singing earlier?”

     Amadou smiles. “We travel all over, performing for coin, doing odd jobs. Our homeland was ravaged by war, and we had to leave. This may be the furthest we’ve ever gone in the world.”

     Sukuna chuckles. “Tch. And now that you’ve come here, what do you think?”

     Amadou is silent. Yusuf, however, snorts in disdain. Sukuna’s crimson eyes focus on him, and he startles like a cat in a spray of water. Ajani and Ajamu laugh when he shoots them a glare.

     “Are all the locals so rude to foreigners?” Yusuf asks bitterly. Sukuna tilts his head with a grin.

     “Count yourself lucky that it is only the ignorant peasants who are rude to you,” he says and there’s something about his tone that sends a chill down their spines. A threat? A warning? It can be either, but his smile is too sharp, like a butcher’s knife freshly-whetted on the stone. Even a caress will cut.

     “I suppose you have the right of it,” Yusuf concedes. “Still, it’s something to hire us to perform and then force us to linger on the outskirts of the village. To have fallen so far—”

     “What he means to say is…things could stand to be a bit more hospitable,” Amadou interrupts quickly. “But it is a beautiful country. Reminds me of some parts of our homeland.”

     Sukuna recalls the brief conversation with Šetû and smirks.

     “Come to my estate,” he says. “All of you. I could use some entertainment and new flavors to try.”

     Yusuf looks visibly nonplussed but Amadou smiles.

     “Truly? We would be honored to accept but…” Amadou hesitates, glances back toward the village. “We have obligations here. Would we still be welcome after the festival is done?”

     Sukuna’s grin is sleek, and one of the eyes on the bone plate of his face settles on Šetû and she chews her lip again.

     “I don’t see why not,” he says laconically. “You will be paid for your services. A great deal better than these provincial superstitious idiots. Aside,” he turns the full weight of his gaze on Šetû again. “I believe what you have to offer is very interesting.”

     Amadou frowns. “And what do you mean by that, my lord?” He asks in a tone that dares to reveal a bit of steel. Sukuna grins then, and this time it chills all around the fire. Uraume smirks as if they know something the others do not.

     “I have never seen art like yours before,” Sukuna drawls. “And it would please me to have you present it to me away from…” He gestures vaguely toward the village. Amadou seems settled by the explanation, but he shares a brief glance with Yusuf who seems to understand what just transpired.

     “It would be our highest honor, my lord,” Amadou says, bowing his head.

     There’s the sound of bells tinkling as Šetû shifts in her seat.

     “We should play Hankali,” she says with a grin. Amadou and Yusuf look momentarily startled, but Ajani and Ajamu seize on that opportunity.

     “Great idea!” Ajani says, getting up. “I’ll grab my tama, eh?”

     Šetû claps her hands together excitedly, kicking her feet and making the ankle bells jingle prettily. Sukuna watches her with an amusement one would expect from a normally impassive deity.

     “What is this…” he thinks for a moment, then says the word slowly. “Hankari?”

     “Hankali,” Šetû corrects with a grin. “It’s a children’s game we usually play after a good night. A test of rhythm, memory, and word association.”

     Sukuna snorts. “And how is it played?”

     The little family gathers around as Ajani returns with a small, two-headed drum affixed with thick, gutstring ropes, and a curved stick with a flattened tip. He wears the drum slung on his shoulder and carried in his armpit; and it sits high, almost too high for it to be reasonably played by hand. Sukuna watches unblinking as he tests the drum, tapping out a rapid series of syncopated rhythms with only the stick and his fingertips. Sukuna’s eyes narrow when he sees the subtle flex of his arm, tightening the gutstring ropes and causing the drum to sound out different notes.

     As if it is talking. Sukuna tilts his head, his curiosity getting the better of him.

     “Teach me,” he says to Šetû, who beams at him as if he is an old friend and not the fearsome and rightly feared sorcerer that holds sway in these lands.

     Sukuna watches as she moves her hands, gesturing to Ajani to play.

     “So,” she explains, “we start by establishing a rhythm…”

     Sukuna listens, watches as Šetû’s hands move, tapping her lap, clapping her hands, and then snapping both fingers. Sukuna’s brow furrows, listening. The drum, her hands, two counter rhythms locking in to become a sentence, a phrase. Sukuna begins to breathe in time with the music; it’s just like her performance earlier in the evening. He’s caught in the rhythm, tapping in time with one finger before he even realizes he’s doing it.

     Šetû begins to sing, her voice coming out honey sweet in that strange tongue Sukuna doesn’t understand, introducing yet another element to the music. Sukuna focuses on her hands, but he hears the men respond to her call, and he smirks.

     It doesn’t take long for him to pick up on the pattern, letting them play a round where they switch to Japanese, listing off words that are commonly associated with one another. At the end of each turn, Šetû returns to the calling chorus, and Sukuna responds. Even Uraume who is usually so reserved seems to relax to the music.

     And now he’s having fun in a way he did not expect.

     Several times, people are knocked out of the game for missing the rhythm, hesitating, or saying a word that doesn’t match the round robin. Sukuna laughs uproariously when he realizes the point of the game.

     “It helps teach you our language,” he says. Šetû beams again.

     “Got it in one,” she says. “We’ve gone begging for translators and native speakers in our travels, but the best way we learn is by simply immersing in the language. And then we use Hankali to practice.”

     Sukuna smirks. “You’re passing fair at it already, and your brother isn’t a bad cook.” Although there’s a sense that he doesn’t believe for a moment that Šetû isn’t the smartest one in the bunch. He finds her brothers to be irritatingly suspicious and antsy, but Šetû has exhibited a calm in his presence he isn’t used to; not only that…she has welcomed him.

     “My lord…” Uraume stirs by his side. He seems startled from his thoughts, eyes cutting downward to regard them. “We must depart if we’re to prepare for travel tomorrow.”

     Sukuna sighs and waves a hand.

     “Yeah, yeah,” he says dismissively. He rises to his full height, and all rise with him. They bow to him as he turns away to leave. He spares a glance over his shoulder.

     “I expect to see you all at the shrine after this festival is over.” He says and Amadou keeps his eyes dutifully downcast.

     “Of course, my lord,” he says, willing obeisance into his tone. Sukuna smirks smugly, pleased with the outcome. Uraume bows one last time before they depart.

     “My lord appreciates your hospitality,” they say cooly.

     And with that, the pair depart. For a while, Šetû watches them go until they vanish around a bend in the path, leading toward the thick forest, vanishing like mist.

     “Anyone else almost shit themselves in terror?” Ajani asks when he’s sure Sukuna and Uraume are out of earshot as well as line of sight.

     “Wallahi, each of the man’s hands were the size of Amadou’s head, I thought for sure he was going to kill us all,” Ajamu says, earning nervous but relieved laughter from the group.

     “And the way he kept looking at Šetû…” Yusuf snorts. “Like he wanted to have her served up on a platter or something.”

     Šetû’s cheeks flush with heat. “Please, he was probably just lost in thought or something. Plus, I’m the one who speaks the language best. And if you blockheads would actually stop acting like a bunch of posturing peacocks, we’d be able to get the locals to be more welcoming!”

     “Tch! If his mouth hadn’t been closed, he would be drooling like a starved dog.” Yusuf says and Šetû laughs. She doesn’t quite believe it herself, but she remembers the weight of Sukuna’s gaze, the way the crimson irises seemed to gleam like drops of blood, rippling with something she couldn’t name. A hunger with an unending maw and gullet, one that will inevitably swallow her up if she dares get too close.

     She pushes such thoughts from her mind.

     “Well, in any case, we’ve accepted his invitation,” she says. “We can’t back out. Something tells me he’s not the type who takes kindly to one going back on their word.”

     Amadou makes a pensive sound, resting his chin on his hands.

     “Yes,” he agrees. “We’ll finish up the festival tomorrow and then head to the shrine. I don’t think Sukuna means us harm. He could have easily harmed us right here if that was his aim.”

     Yusuf sucks his teeth in annoyance.

     “And would you wander into the mouth of a tiger if it promised not to close its jaws on your head? Amadou, the man is dangerous. He had an aura of evil about him that chills the blood. You cannot mean to accept his invitation!”

     Amadou sighs. “Of course I do, Yusuf. He has promised payment, and we’re low on coin as is. Our wagon wheel will need mending soon, and our food stores are in dire need of restock. Of course I will accept the invitation, what other choice is there?”

     Yusuf grumbles but no retort comes to gainsay his brother. Thus settled, Amadou declares the night over. Together, siblings and cousins clean up the camp, douse the fire, and retreat to their yurt. Inside is a snug fit, but it’s warm. Ajani and Ajamu decide to take the first watch.

     “What do you think we should expect at the shrine?” Šetu murmurs from her pallet. Amadou snorts.

     “More of the same: servants, a few priests and priestesses, and Sukuna himself, I’d imagine. Likely he’ll only want us there for the night, so it should be safe.”

     Šetû thinks about the way Sukuna’s crimson eyes flared with a hunger that made her shiver to the marrow. Safe is not the word she’d use, and yet she gets the distinct feeling his invitation is sincere. Her eyes drift close, and she catches the faintest whiff of something burning as she slips into sleep.

𓇢𓆸 Masterlist 𖤓 Next

© 2024-2025 Hajara Asiri. Do NOT copy, translate, plagiarize, repost anywhere without permission [reblogging posts is okay]. This includes feeding any of my writing to an AI as well as copying my masterlist format, fanfic format, or stealing my graphics. I only upload on Tumblr and AO3. Header, footer, and dividers by me.

☕️ Member of the @pixelcafe-network.

[whoishotteranimepolls]

"Who's Hotter?" Same Energy

[kaththeart]

Special

[welcometothehornyjail]

God I literally just am frothing at the mouth over Sakuna. A fucking invincible warlord of his era and imagine like an isekai situation and somehow as corny as it is he falls for YOU. You get strong. You become fierce. You become his ruling queen who demands nothing but a whole host of consorts for yourself and him as well. Just the power couple of eternal life and beyond death as later when the fingers are eaten your soul awakens again in a young girl and whoops now you gotta deal with that; the tragedy. The agnst. The betrayal. Not really NSFW but girl I am DYING for some queen shit.

Horny Jail's Anonymous Fluffies

Please remember this is a confessional series; you may interact however you like, but you must always maintain respectfulness and civility with the confessor.

I think this was the plot of a fanfic I read months ago. Does anyone else remember it and can link it?

And just FYI when it's not NSFW, it's a fluffy, not a thirsty, but we don't get many of those

[would-they-be-good-at-asmr]

Propaganda:

Absolutely has the voice and (usually) the laid-back demeanor for some quality ASMR. He's probably more well suited for cannibalist mukbang tho 💀

[monarch-of-anime-simping]

SUKUNAAA :D

yes this is a thirst trap 😔😔

yes i am the thirsty one

[littlewingedlady]

I debated so hard on posting this or not, but here we are.

So I recently started digital art, and idk what I'm doing at all. I'm not used to the tablet. So It's frustrating at times... Also, I have no skill outside of drawing eyes. *cries* I'm artistically stunted! T^T

ANYWAYS, here are some pictures i drew recently.

(I didn't start drawing because of jjk. It's just what I've been drawing recently. Just wanted to make that clear.)

[maddmuses]

Send an ask, and Sukuna will tell you if your muse is Strong

[subehind]

"We use when to refer to a future situation or condition that we are certain of." - Cambridge Dictionary

Did Sukuna think Megumi would be able to land a hit? LOL, nope.

In the second panel, Sukuna says "utte miro" (打ってみろ), which literally translates to "try to strike (me)". So, yeah... Sukuna's mocking him.

Fun fact from the first panel - the verb "komeru" in "Motto noroi o komete" (this is translated just fine) is also being used as "to load a gun". I just think this is neat if you imagine curses as sorcerers' firepower. It's like Sukuna saying "you're short on bullets".

[on-wine-dark-seas]

The Invitation

Dedicated to the little Black girl who wanted to be all things when the world told her she was nothing. You are everything. 🍯

🪧 Summary: 1050 AD, Heian Era. One full moon, Sukuna meets a dancing storyteller at the Hida Harvest Festival. But after a tragically violent evening robs her of everything, she winds up in a strange alliance with the King of Curses as his guest. 📚 Series: Sonder 🔞 Rating: Explicit ⚠️️ Warning[s]: Rape/Non-Con [not from Sukuna don't worry], blood, gore, description of wounds and dead bodies, cannibalism, recreational drug use [ganja, psilocybin, opium], slow-ish burn, hurt/comfort, PTSD, revenge, catharsis, eventual romance, eventual smut, Ryōmen Sukuna is his own warning. 💋 Pairing[s]: Sukuna x The Writer [⛩️🍯] 🎧 Playlist: [ the invitation ]

⛩️ AO3 𑁍 Parallax OCs 𑁍 Sonder OCs ⛩️

🍯 VI. 動きと感覚 Movement & Sensation

"Learn to caress. Learn the oceans and stars, honey and agony. Learn your body: learn to squeeze it, embroider it, water it, and kiss it. Learn to hug it. Learn to moan, cry, laugh." —Margarita Karapanou, tr. by N. C. Germanakos, from “ Kassandra and the Wolf"

     “No fighting today?” Šetû asks as Sukuna leads her to a secluded part of the shrine. She notes the pond, the soribashi, the moon gate: a garden. In the cold winter, the garden itself is asleep for the season, but a single plum blossom tree grows in the center, its barren branches dripping with snow melt and icicles. Around the tree’s base are several stone benches, carved into the shape of lotuses. Šetû briefly wonders if the former clergy of this shrine used this as a meditation space. She can see no other possibility.

     “Sit,” Sukuna says, arraying himself like a king on one of the benches. Šetû folds herself into a comfortable seated position, her expression wary but curious.

     “You’re going to learn how to breathe today,” Sukuna growls. Šetû’s brows go up, then she frowns.

     “I see,” she says uneasily. “Wasn’t aware my breathing was a problem since I’ve been doing it all my life.”

     Sukuna stares at her, unamused. “It is when you waste your energy unnecessarily. You are like an errant child, spilling your cup all over the place while walking at the same time.” He waves one hand in irritation, as if she is an errant child.

     Šetû wrinkles her nose. “I suppose that’s fair. This is a matter of balance, is it not?”

     Sukuna huffs but does not answer. To him, it is as simple as that. Šetû rolls her eyes and sits up straight, her hands forming a mudra as Uraume taught her. She begins to breathe intentionally. Sukuna continues to watch her, unblinking. Šetû shuts her eyes, begins to find a rhythm in her breathing.

     “Stop using your chest and start using your stomach,” Sukuna chides, and she opens one eye to glare at him. He is impassive in the face of her irritation. She sucks her teeth and begins again.

     Over and over, he makes her restart, until her breath changes, until she feels as if he wants to reach into her soul and remold it himself. She breathes until she’s sick of breathing, and then she breathes some more. Sukuna watches intently, and she begins to ignore him, focusing instead on her breath. The earth beneath her, the roots, the mycelium, the trunk of the great plum blossom tree, reaching toward the heavens.

     The sky.

     Without thinking, her head tips back, eyes opening. The sky yawns endlessly, wide and blue, wispy clouds streaked across like powder. Sukuna is still watching her, but he looks…anticipatory. His eyes narrow at her next inhale, and then he has his answer.

     “Good,” he says and Šetû returns to herself, blinking as if she’s just returned from a nap. She feels like she’s been asleep for a thousand years. Sukuna makes a sound that she’s come to learn is his approval, and she smiles at him.

     “Next,” Sukuna says. “You’ll do that while we spar.”

     Šetû is about to respond with several questions on the tip of her tongue but a shrill laugh from the courtyard tears apart the algid serenity of the sleeping garden. She is suddenly aware of her very cold rear, the prickling of the stone through the thin hakama she wears. She shivers.

     And then suddenly: warmth.

     It’s overwhelming, it seeps into her, and her shivering eases as she breathes deeply.

     She is summarily assaulted by the scent of sandalwood, cedar, and something else, something from deeper within the earth. Her eyelids flutter and she realizes she’s been draped in a black haori. Sukuna’s black haori, which nearly swallows her. Before she can ask any questions, Sukuna is already heading toward the courtyard. Her eyes linger on the muscles of his bared torso, the thick bands of ink around his wrists and biceps, the thorny lines along his neck and between his shoulders. She bites her lip and swallows hard as he stretches, all four arms outstretched.

     “There’s a hole in the seam of the left sleeve,” Sukuna says curtly. ���Cycle through those breathing techniques for another hour, then take it to Oboro or Okoi. They will know how to repair it.”

     He doesn’t linger to hear Šetû’s confused line of questioning, already striding off to meet his unexpected guests in the courtyard.

     For a while, Šetû sits alone, draped in Sukuna’s haori, the cold seeping from her as his lingering warmth spread all over her skin and her senses are soaked in his scent. Hidden in the sleeping garden, she lets herself indulge in a smile, and then a sound shivers out of her: a giggle. Her fingers curl into the dense fabric and pull it closer around her. She imagines four arms, solid and strong curling around her. Solid weight behind her as her eyes shut and she cycles through her breathing.

     She’s not sure how long she’s there, seated on the lotus bench, breathing in time with the earth and sky, basking in the fleeing warmth of Sukuna’s haori, and his scent which is muted in the sharp cold air through her nose.

     “I had no idea Sukuna had an affinity for bards,” a voice muses, dripping with saccharine maliciousness. Šetû startles and then gets to her feet, turning to face the speaker. Her brow furrows in confusion at the statuesque woman before her. She takes her in: her milky white skin, her wide set dark eyes, her bone-straight black hair, her mouth the color of crushed cherries. A quintessential beauty of this country, by all accounts.

     And she’s stark naked beneath her haori.

     The woman crosses her arm beneath her breasts, tilting her head in an avian-like gesture as she sizes Šetû up with a critical squint of one of her eyes.

     “Hm,” the woman says. “I can see why he likes you. Your cursed energy runs deep. I suppose it’ll make killing you all the sweeter when he finally tires of you.”

     “Do I know you?” Šetû asks. The woman moves and it takes everything in her not to flinch. She’s fast, but moreover, she doesn’t move as any human woman should. There’s something mechanical about her movements, like a marionette or an…an insect. A dangerous stinging insect from the withering look in her eyes.

     “I’m Yorozu,” the woman says by way of introduction. No surname and no bow. Both signs of disrespect, memory serve. “And I am to be Sukuna’s wife.”

     Šetû tries to ignore how her heart drops into the acid pit of her stomach. She imagines, for the briefest instant, the world crumbling around her. Inwardly, she can hear her own voice screaming in her head.

     Of course he’s betrothed. Of course he is promised to someone else. She’s just his charge until she finishes her task. She’s just the bard he hired to sing and dance and entertain his curiosity.

     This woman, with her shrewd eyes and cruel smile seems exactly like the kind of woman Sukuna would marry. A sorcerer from the looks of it, and licentious if her severe lack of clothing is anything to go by.

     Suddenly the haori feels itchy and uncomfortable. She lets out a sharp exhale through her nose.

     “He made no mention of you,” she says and takes undue pleasure in the blood draining from the woman’s face momentarily. There’s a certain shame she feels in this petty little contest of wills with a woman she barely knows. Then, she feels the crackle of cursed energy.

     Oh.

“Yorozu, are you playing nice with Lord Sukuna’s guest?” Another voice, a cheerful male one, interrupts as Yorozu lowers her hand, the fingers flexed hard enough for Šetû to see the pronounced veins in them. For a moment—a brief heartbeat—Yorozu’s face is warped, her features stretched too thinly over her skull, giving her a gaunt and grotesque appearance. Almost like a wasp wearing a human woman’s face.

     When she turns to face the man speaking, however, her face seems normal, the veins in her hands faded to smooth, milky skin.

     “Of course, Kenjaku,” she says sweetly. “I’d never think of bringing harm to one of Sukuna’s pets. Though I can’t imagine what need he has for broken things.”

     It is those words that find their mark. Šetû wills herself to calm, but the words stick in her skin like hooked barbs, and Yorozu is not some empty-headed piece of fluff from the Heian-kyō court: she is a sorcerer, and as such, she is more part of Sukuna’s world than Šetû could ever dare hope to be. Her brutality is swift. Yorozu pulls those proverbial barbs back, attempting to lift skin from bone, seeking the other woman’s pain, no matter how petty.

     “Perhaps she is no guest, Kenjaku, but a mere appetizer!” Yorozu’s shrill, manic laughter is loud in the garden of stone and hard-packed earth. Šetû feels like a fool, standing there in Sukuna’s haori, feeling awkward in her own skin.

     Kenjaku, a tall, willowy man with black hair pulled into a top knot, steps into the moon gate. He’s clad in a simple black kimono and a pair of zori. But it is not his clothing that shocks Šetû, but the scar around his forehead, like old stitches. She wonders what sort of injury could create such a scar, then averts her eyes to look at her feet, chiding herself for gawking. She does not gawk at Sukuna for his abnormal appearance, she’ll not do it to his guests.

     Even Yorozu.

     “My oh my, what an interesting guest,” Kenjaku breathes, looking her over appraisingly. “A foreign sorcerer! I’ve never heard of such a thing in all my days. I suppose times really are changing, hm?”

     Šetû says nothing. The man’s cheery smile and amicable demeanor is disarming, she’ll admit, but she knows a serpent in the grass when she sees one. She gives a polite bow, ignoring Yorozu’s smug smirk as Kenjaku returns the bow in kind.

     “Forgive my companion,” he says, ever the paragon of decorum. “She has such little contact with foreigners and does not know the protocol for interacting with guests.”

     Šetû straightens up, this time bolstered by a connection made as a memory bubbles to the surface.

     And if that’s his wife…how immodest!

     Her eyes narrow, recognition surfacing. The nude woman who had been next to Sukuna, the one her brothers had teased her about who had been shooting her poisonous looks all evening.

     “Well,” she says, and feels the headiness of a victory oncoming. The racing pulse of knowing one has cornered their opponent on the board. “I suppose it is forgivable. I cannot fault her for being so limited in her own world experiences and travels. Lord Kenjaku, was it? I am Asiri Šetû, daughter of Rahanatu and Ahmad, and professional marokiya here to serve at Lord Sukuna’s pleasure. I am new to this jujutsu your people have told me about, and so he has endeavored to teach me.”

     Kenjaku’s smile is frozen on his face as Yorozu processes the stinging blade of her words. As subtle as a throat cut in the deepened shadows of the night. Her mouth opens and then closes.

     “I see,” there’s a pleased note in Kenjaku’s voice, as if he has just discovered something new and fascinating to turn over in his hands like a precious, unrefined gem. He eyes her again, this time with a grin of satisfaction and approval.

     “It is so unlike Sukuna to take on a pupil,” Kenjaku remarks. “You must be truly special indeed to have caught his attention.”

     Yorozu’s face crumples and Šetû feels the tension ease in her favor, exhaling with relief as the other woman spins on her bare feet to storm off. Šetû watches her go before turning her attention to Kenjaku who looks like a cat licking cream.

     “It was nice meeting you, Kenjaku,” she says, bowing again before taking her leave. She can feel his gaze at her back, wondering. Calculating. She does not like it.

     When Šetû returns to her room, still wearing Sukuna’s haori, she lets out a long sigh. The day is half over and she still has to prepare a performance worthy of the King of Curses this evening. With no musicians, and precious little remaining to her save for the things in her trunk, she racks the archives of her memory. He wants her to dance, she needs some sort of music.

     A scratching at her door.

     “Come in, Oboro-san,” she says absently as she lifts the top of the trunk, marveling at how its insides remained untouched by the flames that swallowed up her old life.

     Her old life. A lump forms in her throat. She can’t do this. She can’t do this without her brothers. Without her cousins. It’s not the same. It will never be the same.

     But Sukuna has made it clear it is not his concern whether anyone else shares her stage, so long as she’s on it.

     It is a vote of confidence as much as any other, and she must trust in her own skills to see this through. She would hate to disappoint him after he’s gone through so much trouble to keep her alive. She listens to the hiss of the sliding door, the whisper of silk as Oboro shuffles into the room, Okoi is right behind her, quiet as always. Šetû can tell them apart, now. Their hair, likely once jet black and bone straight, is iron gray. Okoi bears a scar across her face, as if it had been ripped in half.

     “Yorozu has been in a rage since she arrived, Lady Asiri,” Oboro says, and there’s an almost conspiratorial and gleeful inflection in her words. “Okoi says she saw her storm off from the old meditation garden after speaking with you and Lord Kenjaku.”

     Šetû sucks her teeth in annoyance. “Very foolish woman, that one,” she says disdainfully. “Claiming to be Sukuna’s wife and speaking to me as if I am some ignorant backwater country girl when she has not so much have set foot off this island to see the world beyond. Mscheww. Agbaya.”

     Oboro puzzles out the word, but from Šetû’s tone the meaning is clear and she hides a laugh behind her hand.

     “Lord Sukuna said one of you can mend his haori,” Šetû says finally shrugging out of it, reluctant to relinquish it. Oboro takes it, checking the seams. Sure enough there is a hole in the armpit of the left sleeve. She wiggles her finger through it, clucking her tongue in disappointment before speaking in quiet tone to Okoi.

     “He’s had this thing for so long it’s a wonder how it isn’t threadbare by now,” Oboro says. “And he told you to give it to us rather than fetch us himself, hm?”

     Šetû frowns. “Why that tone, Oboro-san?”

     “Oh, no reason,” Oboro says absently. “Just strange that he wasn’t out here bellowing for one of us to come mend his clothing. It’s so hard to get clothing to fit his stature and physique, you see. Most tailors won’t dare come within leagues of the shrine if they can avoid it.”

     Šetû sighs. Of course. Everyone in Hida fears him. She is beginning to realize that the harvest festival wasn’t meant to honor him, but appease him in hopes to be spared whatever atrocities he’d wreak. She has seen travelers, sparse and few in the winter, braving the trek to his shrine, disappearing into his throne room. Some never make it out, and others leave as fast as their feet can carry them, bitter winter be damned. Sukuna is the not the first tyrant she has served, but he is the first she has served that has treated her with more kindness than the folk who fear him.

     It was not Sukuna who violated that night and slit her throat. It was not Sukuna who killed her family and burned up everything in her life.

     It was Sukuna who pulled her from the brink of death and carried her back to his shrine and saw her nursed back to health. Whether his motivations are altruistic or otherwise, that is the truth Šetû must contend with: the God of Hida is a monster to these people, but for one moonlit night, he was her savior.

     How does one reconcile such a dichotomy? She does not know. She only knows that he demands her skills to entertain him, and that whatever she does will decide how she’s treated afterward.

     “What do you mean to do for Lord Sukuna tonight?” Oboro asks quietly, sensing her mood, the pensive way she looks at the contents of her trunk. Outside, a sharp wind picks up, sending snow flurries spinning across the lattice window of her room. The brazier’s ever-burning heat beats back the chill.

     “I…” Šetû shuts her eyes briefly. It’s obvious to her now what she must do tonight. It is a perfect gift fit for a king, and one worthy of praise. She kneels in front of her trunk, rummaging until she withdraws a latched lacquered box. She brushes her fingers over the gilt phoenix taking flight across its glossy surface. A gift from a Chinese noblewoman she’d entertained two years prior. Within, the tools she needs to give Sukuna what he seeks.

     “I have an idea, Oboro-san,” she says at last. “You and your sister are trained in music and dance, yes?”

     Okoi stirs at that, sewing Sukuna’s haori with a deft hand. Oboro nods.

     “Yes, but it’s been some time since we were called to entertain or engage in rituals,” she says. “Even so, I doubt we have anything that could match your own talents…or translate to what you plan to do.”

     Šetû shakes her head. “No, we will need to create something new between us, Oboro. Fetch your instruments, I think I know what will honor Lord Sukuna this night.”

     Oboro and Okoi share a look, and Okoi’s lips pull into a soft and approving smile.

     “Whatever you require of us, Lady Asiri,” Oboro says with a bow. “Tell us what you need.”

     Sukuna has never been more bored; or at least, he cannot recall the last time he was this bored.

     He hadn’t expected this visit from Kenjaku, nor had he expected Yorozu to accompany him, but he supposes given the former’s scheming, it was inevitable that the sorcerer would show up at his doorstep. Sukuna tolerates Kenjaku because of his knowledge and power, but Yorozu is a thorn in his side.

     He’s sure if he fucks her at least once it will make whatever delusions she has about him even worse, not better. Still, he wonders if it will make her quieter. He also considers eating her. Gods above she’ll probably love that too. Pleasing her is not his aim, and he waves her off as she stands near him, attempting to touch him even as he listens to Kenjaku’s update on this massive undertaking he’s been planning.

     He hasn’t seen Šetû since he left her in the garden this morning. Nor Oboro and Okoi. He growls in agitation before he even realizes it.

     “Something the matter, Lord Sukuna?” Kenjaku asks lightly, the closest he’ll dare to showing displeasure with Sukuna at having his speech interrupted. Sukuna waves his hand dismissively.

     “Any idea when you’re going to be getting to the point as to why you’ve deigned to turn up on my doorstep with this one in tow? Could it not have waited until spring?”

     Kenjaku grins. “Oh, but my lord I thought you’d want to know that Sugawara has been making plans to finally come for your head!”

     That get Sukuna’s attention.

     “Is that so?” He asks. “Huh. Why now? I’ve decimated every force he and the Fujiwara have sent to kill me. Surely he knows when he is beaten and to be thankful he gets to live, yes?”

     It is a warning. Kenjaku rests his chin on his hands, making a thoughtful humming sound.

     “I suppose he doesn’t consider it a permanent defeat. It is my understanding that he will consider you to be his greatest victory.”

     “Nonsense,” Yorozu scoffs. “He thinks because he possesses the Six Eyes that somehow—”

     “Enough.” Sukuna says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Has Sugawara made a formal announcement or is this more of your court whispering seeking to stir up trouble for me in the south?”

     Kenjaku shrugs and turns out his hands.

     “I cannot be certain if he means to make a move so soon, but I do know he plans on coming to Hida for the spring festival. He does so love to witness the first cherry blossom blooms in the hills. Frankly I find it more charming out here than in the capital so I can’t blame him.”

     Sukuna doesn’t care. Spring festival? That’s an entire month or two away depending on the divinations of the priests for an auspicious date to set. Sukuna doesn’t care about that either. He can stamp out this worthless sorcerer and be done with it.

     Where the fuck is Asiri?

     His agitation mounts, sending ripples through the sea of his cursed energy that flows through seemingly every crack and splinter of the entire shrine. Yorozu shivers and bites her lip with scarce-concealed delight. To her, Sukuna is no omen but divine portent of the change to come. She stands by his side, always ready to remind him that he need not stand alone in his strength.

     And yet he has not so much as looked at her, all four of his eyes distracted and irritated, as if he is looking for something else.

     Someone else.

     Yorozu simmers in her jealousy, reminding herself that the girl is, by her own admission, simply here for Lord Sukuna’s pleasure as an entertainer. Winter is a boring season, and she cannot fault Sukuna for seeking entertainment for the long, bitter season. Come spring’s thaw, Yorozu expects the girl to be served on a plate for Sukuna to devour.

     She’ll want to be here for that.

     The meeting continues until the sunset begins to send shafts of cold, golden light into various parts of the shrine. Kenjaku and Sukuna walk side by side through the stone halls.

     “So,” he says. “The girl.”

     “What girl?” Sukuna grouses. Kenjaku chuckles.

     “She’s a sorcerer, then?” Kenjaku asks in a light tone. “She mentioned you’ve taken her on as a pupil. Or…do your interests lie elsewhere? Is she your pet, perhaps?”

     Sukuna’s eyes flare. “If you value your head—which I know is the only thing you value, Kenjaku—you’ll cease your prodding. The girl was hired to entertain, and that is what she does. That she is a sorcerer is of no concern to me.”

     Kenjaku is quiet as he meets Sukuna’s gaze, his expression unreadable.

     “I see,” he says at last, and that bright and saccharine smile and tone return in an instant. Gods Sukuna does not trust this man without a binding vow between them. They arrive at the front steps of the shrine, leading out into the courtyard. Kenjaku bows.

     “If it’s not too much trouble,” he says. “Might Yorozu and I take the guest quarters for the night? We’ll be gone by dawn, not to worry.”

     Kenjaku smirks, a fox with prey between its teeth.

     “I’ll be sure that your evening activities aren’t disturbed.”

     Sukuna says nothing, but a growl stirs in his chest before he waves his hand dismissively. Kenjaku bows again.

     “You are most generous,” he says, and leaves to a smaller outbuilding containing quarters for guests. It’s humble, given that the King of Curses is not known to entertain, but it is enough.

     Sukuna watches the sun sink below the trees, feels the bite of the evening air on his skin. He remembers Asiri and her promise to dance for him tonight, and for the first time all day, he smiles.

     Šetû remembers the first time she began training as a marokiya with her mother. She had been no higher than her father’s knee when she first danced and sang, demonstrating her natural abilities for music. The music had enchanted her from the first tap of the djembe and tama, to the melodic tinkling of bells hanging from her mother’s belts and anklets. Šetû had taken to the bardic life without fear or embarrassment. On the stage, she was as untouchable and unassailable as a goddess. Her feet danced over all manner of ground, sacred and profane, and her body wove through ancient rhythms as surely as a river cuts through a valley. Never had she known squeamish nervousness before a performance.

     Until tonight.

     When Sukuna demanded she do as he originally hired her to do, she thought perhaps he meant to kill her after all. Her fear, since arriving at the shrine, had been rooted in the fact that she was as useful to him on his dinner table as she was as a potential pupil in jujutsu. The fear was as ubiquitous as any other emotion. Now, however, thinking about how he draped his haori over her shoulders, and Oboro and Okoi sharing looks between them and noting his behavior as odd.

     Her fear is rooted in something else.

     Oboro and Okoi are the lifeblood of this shrine, she’s convinced, for without their aid, she isn’t sure she could have pulled off her idea nearly half so well. She stands in front of her mirror, observing her reflection. A captive dream spirit stares back at her.

     Oboro gasps softly as she observes from behind. Even Okoi looks stunned.

     Šetû turns to face them, her cowrie shell crown swaying.

     “Well?” She offers to their stunned but proud faces. “Will I serve?”

     Oboro’s mouth opens and then closes.

     “Yes,” she says, her voice a tremulous whisper. “Lady Asiri, you look like a wild dream spirit. Lord Sukuna will find no other like you in this world, I think. He will be more than pleased.”

     The two older women bow deeply to her, and Šetû blinks rapidly to keep the prick of tears at bay. She bows back, the sound of her dance belt jingling with silver coins and bells. As she gathers her courage, she heads to the door before Oboro stops her.

     “My lady,” she says and bows, presented a folded black bundle. Šetû’s eyes go wide.

     Sukuna’s haori.

     “Okoi’s hand is steadier with a needle than my own,” Oboro says and if Šetû isn’t mistaken there’s a sly note in the woman’s tone. “But we believe you can return it to Lord Sukuna on our behalf, of course.”

     “Of course,” Šetû murmurs as she shrugs into the massive haori as she heads down the hall. She passes Sukuna’s bedchamber on the way to the throne room. It occurs to her she’s never actually been inside of it. The doors are always adamantly shut.

     Likely so I don’t see the atrocities he commits there. She thinks, then chides herself. What a terribly uncharitable thought. Sukuna has been kind to her, in his way. What he does to others should not concern her as much as it does. Yet, what can her lone voice do?

     She enters the throne room with a deep, soothing inhale.

     Sukuna finishes the remains of his dinner, complimenting Uraume as he always does on such a fine preparation. Since bringing Uraume into his sphere, he has eaten well—better than he ever has in life. He wonders if adding Šetû to his sphere will bolster or hinder him. It is as he told her: she is useful to him as a sorcerer and barring that, for her meat. He half-expected her to balk and flee as so many others have done at the mere mention of his dietary habits, but instead she continued to train with him.

     She even rolled her eyes at him. He can see bits of the woman who captivated him in the shattered parts of herself. The connective tissue of the creature that danced in the autumn dust is still there. Wounded, but there.

     The throne room door opens, the sparse braziers providing shifting shadow and flame as a source of light. His eyes narrow when he spots the shine of white cowrie shells, hears the jingle of bell and coin, and knows his lost little flower is home at last.

     Wait. What?

     Sukuna shakes his head, then frowns when he sees her whispering to Oboro and Okoi who are setting up to play. A shamisen and a small hand drum. Sukuna smirks. So that’s what they’ve been up to all day, hm? She’s recruited his servants into her little display, then.

     Sukuna opens his mouth to speak.

     “Get on with it, little flower. I grow bored and hungry yet again.”

     Šetû’s shoulders stiffen at the intrusion of his mocking voice, but then he sees her exhale. With an elegant roll of her shoulders, she shrugs out of the black haori he only now recognizes as his. He doesn’t have time to process all of that before his eyes snag on the shock of white that greets him. It takes him a moment, but his eyes rove over her body, his lower hands gripping the armrests of his throne as he leans forward a little more.

     This is no woman, he thinks, but some sort of dream spirit sent in her place.

     Her skin, which he likens to fresh-turned earth in deep autumn, is painted stark white. Some sort of body paint that covers every curve, fold, and slalom of her form from head to toe. But as he stares, he notes the patterns drawn into the white paint with a steady hand. Shapes, lines, and even…faces. All over her body is the elegant art of someone who had taken their time to touch her. Sukuna’s brow furrows, the bridge of his nose wrinkles as his gaze roves up and down her body.

     She turns her back to him and he realizes she’s naked.

     “Fuck,” he breathes quietly, his voice hoarse.

     A whispering drum beat spurs Šetû into action. The shamisen is plucked by deft hands as she begins to sing, her voice as clear and bright as a winter morning. No Song of Exile this time, Sukuna notes. No, whatever she’s singing has defiance in its inflection, has a bite to it that makes him lick his lips, and he grins with surprise and delight when her palms suddenly ignite. He hadn’t noticed the palm torches in her hands, how clever.

     Her song and the shamisen weave as she begins to move. Sukuna watches her, lower eyes following her bare feet as she seems to glide across the floor. He notes her breath too, deeper and more efficient than he’s ever seen it. Her voice is strong even through dancing. The flames in her palms weave patterns in the air around her, illuminating the canvas of her painted skin, revealing to him the story for what it is.

     This then is the art of a marokiya—an African bard of renown. What she had done at the harvest festival had been but mere playacting compared to the performance she gives him now. The reverence she showed him that night is nothing to the reverence she pays him, now.

     She dances close, hips moving in a rapid serpentine motion, setting the bells and coins to jingling in a rhythm Sukuna recognizes as slotting in with the music. Every part of her body is both instrument and conduit, and Sukuna realizes he is breathing with her again. His lungs are starved for her, and he almost reaches for her before she dances just shy of his fingertips, shooting him a look over her shoulder. The flames are reflected as flickering pinpricks of light in her dark, shimmering eyes.

     Like forest pools in the dark. Sukuna thinks with a softer smile, then chides himself.

     Šetû’s song fades, leaving her to dance freely. Sukuna doesn’t think her feet ever really touch the floor. She’d fly if she could, he knows it. He watches as she turns her back to him, arms spread. His gaze follows the smooth undulations of her shoulders and back and then he spots the symbol painted between her shoulder blades.

     It’s his symbol. The trishula mark on his tongue stares at him on the curves of this beautiful, wild creature dancing in his shrine.

     Sukuna thinks he’s never been this painfully hard for anyone in his life, which isn’t saying much. There’s so few that have moved him like this. Šetû has managed to do this several times.

     She turns on the balls of her feet, a rapid series of rotations that makes the fire in her palms dance around her. Oboro and Okoi even seem lost in the spell her dancing weaves and Sukuna can’t remember the last time he’s ever heard either of them so much as hum a tune. He forgets they are trained priestesses and not just servants too old to turn out and too old to enjoy eating.

     Well, it’s a good thing he didn’t kill them, after all.

     She dances close again, and he reaches for her without thinking as she slips beneath his grasp, into an obeisant kneel, the flames in her palms extinguished. Sukuna sits; his hand still outstretched. The music fades, but the weight of whatever spell she’s woven in this place holds like a sustained note. He stares down at her, eyeing the trishula painted onto her back.

     “Look at me,” he says. His eyes flare once and Oboro and Okoi know that they’ve overstayed their welcome. Quietly, they gather their instruments and withdraw from the throne room. The heavy door shuts behind them.

     Sukuna and his lost flower are alone.

     Šetû slowly breathes in and then lifts her face to him. He studies her behind the white painted mask, sees something there that wasn’t there previously. He beckons her to stand, and she rises with lissome grace, lips parting in a soft gasp when she realizes how close they are: him seated on his throne, and she practically standing between his spread legs.

     “Did my performance please you, Lord Sukuna?” She asks.

     The throne room’s quiet feels oppressive as Sukuna looks her over with his lower eyes, his main eyes on hers. Šetû shifts on her feet, mild discomfort, but he sees something in her, now. Fear. It’s wrapped up in her soul like an old tree’s knotted roots.

     “Are you afraid of me, Asiri?” He asks her. Her eyes go wide.

     “What? No—I mean, I fear you as anyone else might, but…no.” She finishes quietly. Sukuna leans forward, takes a small amount of pleasure when he hears her sharp intake of breath.

     “You should be afraid, Asiri,” he tells her. “I’m a monster.”

     Šetû lets out a breathless laugh.

     “I’ve met monsters, my lord,” she says. “You are not one of them.”

     Sukuna blinks, visibly surprised. Šetû turns out her hands, shaking her head, her crown’s shells clicking prettily around her braids.

     “Lord Sukuna, you took me in after a real monster did something so unspeakable to me, I have seen nothing but his face in my nightmares since coming back to life months ago. Do I find your predilection for human meat to be abhorrent? Of course, but you are not the first man I’ve met who enjoys the taste of human flesh. But since I have been under your roof you have not once done anything to me that would cause me to truly see you as a monster.”

     Sukuna stares at her, momentarily robbed of his ability to reply. No one has ever denied he’s a monster before. Even his so-called allies see him thusly.

     “I could kill you right here, Asiri,” he says. “And have you for breakfast by morning.”

     “Then do so, if that is your wish, my lord,” she replies in a tired voice. “But I think if that was truly your intent you would not have given me into the care of your servants, nor would you have sat by my bedside while I recovered. You wouldn’t be teaching me how to breathe.”

     The way she says the word, something catches in her throat, and she looks away from him. Beneath the white painted mask, he sees her: the remnant. The glittering bits that remain.

     “I do not understand you,” he says at last. “When you dance…” he waves his hand. “You dance as if the world is dust beneath your feet, naught else. Now you look to be on the verge of tears. Is it fear? What is this?”

     “Yes!” She snaps at him. “I’m afraid,” she whispers. “But not of you. Not even of the very real threat you pose to my life. If you killed me right now, I probably wouldn’t care. But…I have my mission to think of, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t kill me before I got a chance to accomplish it.”

     Sukuna stares at her and then he laughs. She winces from how loud he is.

     “Gods, you’re something, Asiri,” he says, his voice surprisingly warm with mirth. Šetû has no idea why he thinks this is funny and she frowns. He holds out his hands.

     “I want to touch you,” he says, and his voice feels like warm water spilling over her senses. She shivers, swallows hard.

     “Is this acceptable?” He asks. For a moment, she considers denying him, then remembers the warmth of his haori engulfing her, redolent with the scent of sandalwood and his natural musk.

     “Yes,” she whispers, stepping closer. She tenses briefly when she feels the warmth of his large hands on her hips, and her knees nearly turn to water at how well she fits into his hold. He pulls her closer until she adjusts to straddle one of his thighs for support. With gentle insistence, he gets her to sit.

     For a moment she sits there, held in place, breathing deeply.

     “When you dance…” Sukuna’s voice sounds rougher than usual, thick with a hunger that has little to do with meat and everything to do with the dream spirit in his hold. “How do you see yourself?”

     Šetû stirs, tries not to focus on the pressure of that iron-hewn thigh pressed against the most intimate juncture of her body. The pressure is frightening and her body’s responding against her will, she thinks. Want makes her words thick; desire cloys her senses.

     “I’ve never really thought about it, I suppose,” she says, trying to keep herself still even though all she wants is to test this pressure between her thighs, rock her hips forward just enough…

     “When I dance,” she breathes. “And I hear the music…I am no longer myself. It’s almost as if I become movement. There is only motion. No thoughts in my mind but the unfettered joy of movement.”

     “Movement and sensation,” Sukuna’s voice is a rough purr—when had his face gotten so close to her skin? She shivers, and the bells and coins give her away. Sukuna does not seem bothered by her partial nudity despite her being painfully aware of it suddenly. She’s clad in nothing but her jewelry, a fundoshi, and the paint on her skin. He marvels at how it doesn’t come off under his fingers.

     “When you fight,” Šetû says, a soft smile curving her generous lips. “How do you see yourself?”

     It is Sukuna’s turn to smile, and his eyes glow like coals in the shadows thickening around his throne—around both of them. He feels her shift in his hold, hips rocking forward only slightly, hears her swallow a tiny, strangled sound as her fear reins her backward. He holds her firmly, grounding her.

     “I don’t,” he replies softly, his thumbs rubbing slow circles into the sensitive juncture between her hips and thighs. Šetû shivers again. Their heads are closer, and she studies the bone-like plate on his face, its contours like the rough crests and peaks of a mountain range. Two eyes set within them like rubies. She reaches up, hesitant, her gaze questioning. Sukuna continues to smirk at her, waiting like some sort of tiger poised to strike as soon as his prey is within reach. Can she touch him too? Or will that provoke the violence she has come to know he is infamous for? In the end, she lowers her hand into her lap.

     “Movement and sensation,” she breathes, repeating his words back to him. Sukuna’s hands on her hips pull her closer, and the friction makes her squeak.

     “That’s right,” Sukuna says, squeezing her hips. “Your dancing and singing were superb as I knew they would be. Would that your sorcery was as powerful, hm?”

     Šetû huffs out a quiet but indignant breath.

     “I didn’t even know what jujutsu was until you told me, my lord,” she chides, annoyed with his self-satisfied smirk. “Credit me with a modicum of competence, at least.” She hugs her arms around herself and Sukuna frowns.

     “Why hide from me, now?” He asks. “You look like a spirit, as if the wind and storm have taken shape in you.”

     “Your wife says you have no need for broken things, my lord,” Šetû says sourly. “And I’ll not be a pawn in whatever game the two of you seek to play.”

     Sukuna blinks at her and for a moment he is genuinely confused. Wife? He thinks and then remembers. Ah, fuck.

     “She is not my wife,” Sukuna growls. “Despite her best efforts.”

     Šetû stares at him, a brow raised in obvious incredulity. Sukuna snorts.

     “Are you a broken thing?” He asks. “Do you think you are a broken thing?”

     She’s taken aback by his question, and she shifts her hips again. Sukuna can feel the heat of the juncture pressed against his thigh and it’s driving to madness. In a moment, he’s not sure if he wants to lunge and bite her throat, or suck the succulent, dark flesh until it bruises under his lips.

     “Some days I think I am,” she says quietly, heedless of the torment he’s battling to pained gridlock just under his skin. “What does it mean when you cannot bear the sight of yourself?”

     Sukuna hates that he understands what she means.

     “You’re carrying something that was never yours to carry,” he replies evenly. “But that doesn’t answer my question, lost little flower: are you a broken thing?”

     Šetû lets the silence yawn between them for a long stretch of heartbeats.

     “I don’t know, my lord,” she says. “There are days I feel like myself, and there are days I feel like shattered glass, sifting through the shards trying to find something worth salvaging. Those days are harder.”

     He knows. He knows because he’s heard her whimper and weep in her sleep and has seen the deadened look in her eyes on the days where she is drained of all light within her, moving like a dazed dreamer through a world she no longer cares to inhabit. He doesn’t tell her about how he waits with a knot in his stomach for news from Uraume or Oboro that she has finally given up and slipped from this life for good. He knows she won’t do it, but he is relieved to see her when she moves through the shrine the next morning. Even if it’s with that deadened look in her eyes, at least her heart still beats, and she still breathes. He does not need to tell her the answer to his question; she’s in the process of discovering it for herself.

     “Do you have hard days?” She asks him. “Where you can’t look at yourself or you’ll be sick?”

     Sukuna blinks. It’s a bold question, and a vulnerable one.

     “If I tell you no, would you believe me?” He asks with a grin. Šetû snorts.

     “You are the God of Hida. I imagine deities don’t have days where they hate themselves.” She reaches up, pressing her hand to her sternum. Sukuna wants to lean in, press his lips there, feel her heart thumping under his mouth. He is torn between wanting to sink his teeth into her and wanting to simply sink into her.

     “Do you want to know how I see you, Asiri?” He asks her instead. Šetû is taken aback momentarily but then she nods, her expression wary. He pushes her gently and she stands, secretly relieved that she’s no longer sitting in his lap, and also forlorn at the loss of that secretly delicious pressure between her thighs. Shame sets her face ablaze, makes her stomach do flips. She shouldn’t want this. She shouldn’t want anything.

“Come,” he says, and he begins to stride off toward the doors. Šetû hurries after him, bells and coins tinkling prettily. She snatches up his discarded haori along the way, throwing it over herself as they leave the throne room and step out into the colder hallway. She follows him until they arrive at the door to his bedchamber.

     She freezes.

     “Don’t worry,” Sukuna says, only slightly amused. “Nothing will happen to you in here that you do not approve of, you’ve my word. In order for me to show you how I see you, however, I need you to trust me. Do you trust me, little flower?”

     Šetû stares at the bedroom door, still shut. Then slowly, she turns her gaze up to him. She studies his face, the strong jawline, the stark black tattoos, the eerie bone-plate on his face. He is grotesque and beautiful all at once. She smiles at him, tender and wry.

     “With my life? No. With whatever you seek to show me? Yes.”

     Sukuna chuckles and opens the door.

     “Good girl,” he says and Šetû feels something shiver directly down her spine. “Never trust me with your life, otherwise I am liable to take it for myself. And your life is so very valuable, little flower.”

     Every word is poisoned honey, and she wants to drink down every last drop. Turning away from him, she crosses the threshold of his bedchamber and is plunged into the velvety darkness of the space. Sukuna tends to the brazier that keeps the room warm, but other than that there is no other light source in the room, which is shrouded largely in shadows. She walks toward the desk, picking a careful path. She steals a glance over her shoulder, sees Sukuna’s eyes glowing in the shadows, his large frame silhouetted as a deeper shadow against the faint bits of starlight that peers through his bedroom.

     “Go to the mirror,” he tells her. Šetû nods. In one corner of the room is a large, full-length mirror. Its frame is copper, weathered and beaten, the pane of it shines in the sparse light from the brazier across the room. She can make out her silhouette, still clad in the haori. She shrugs out of it and folds it to set aside. She can see her shape, the soft dips and curves of her, the stark white paint telling her story against her skin.

     Sukuna comes up behind her and she sucks in a breath seeing him in the reflection. He towers over her, and she can only make out the glow of his eyes.

     “Are you ready?” His voice spills over her again, the heat from his body just behind her seeping into her, warming her to the marrow, making her fundoshi and cowrie shell brasier feel too tight.

     “Yes,” she whispers, willing the tremor out of her voice.

     She watches in the reflection as the silhouette of Sukuna spreads his arms. For a moment, she wants to laugh because their shadowed reflections look as one.

     “開.”

     Šetû’s eyes widen as one of Sukuna’s hands produces a single flame. Suddenly, firelight spills over her, illuminating her body and reflection, casting her into a violent chiascuro of light and dark, juxtaposing the shock of her body paint against his frame. He moves the flame a safe distance from her, keeping her illuminated.

     “Lord Sukuna…” She breathes, awe coloring her voice, fear and shame making her want to hide. Her reflection gazes at bother of them, but Sukuna does not look as if he finds her repulsive. On the contrary, his eyes are glittering with an intense focus that makes her feel more naked than she already is. She tries to steady her breathing.

     “I want you to teach me your mother-tongue,” Sukuna tells her. “Start from the face, move down. Tell me what you see, what you touch, how you feel when you see and touch yourself.”

     Šetû tries to keep from trembling.

     “My mother-tongue?” She asks lamely. Sukuna smirks.

     “Touch is the first language we all learn, little flower,” he says. “And so I want you to touch every part of yourself for me, and I will tell you exactly what I see.”

     Šetû nods and stares at the captive creature in the mirror. Sukuna’s hands are still spread, a gesture of his willingness to forego touching her…for now. One flame is all she needs, and it warms her skin pleasantly.

     She touches her face. Fuskar. Sukuna’s eyes track the movements of her fingertips. Her brows, her eyelids, the soft, sculpted shape of her nose, her full lips, the high cheekbones, the jawline, her ears.

     And as she caresses these parts, she names them in her mother-tongue. Sukuna mouths the words, committing them to memory. He adjusts the flame, its heat and light chasing the path her hands take, the edges licking just out of reach of hurting her as if the divine flame itself seeks to worship every dip and curve of her.

     Her fingertips trace her collarbone, drift down to the lush curves of her breasts. Unthinking, she unties her brazier, lets it falls to the floor. Sukuna inhales deeply, focusing on maintaining the divine flame in his hand. This feels like some sort of ritualistic and holy act, now. An exorcism of its own. The lush weight of her breasts bounce free, nipples hardening in the cool air. There’s painted designs on them too.

     She hesitates, and her eyes meet his in their shared reflection.

     “Do you want me to touch you, Asiri?” He asks. Her hand trembles, but then something in her hardens and she continues.

     Sukuna watches her cup the heavy curve of one of her breasts, and he can see the shame in her.

     “There’s no shame in desire, Asiri,” he assures her with the firm certainty of one who has broken men like the one who planted that rotted seed of shame within her. “Remember: nothing happens in here that you do not want. This is your body, and you want to know how I see you.”

     Šetû swallows against a lump in her throat.

     Her thumb brushes over her nipple and she bites her lip on a sound, as if she is still ashamed to let it out. Sukuna calls upon all of his discipline not to touch her, to douse the divine flame and have her right her in front of the mirror. He wants to make her watch him take her thoroughly, to imprint upon her flesh that she is not a broken thing, and that she is—

     “My lord…” She whispers, her voice pleading. Sukuna meets her gaze in their reflection.

     “Tell me,” he says. Šetû gulps, her throat suddenly dry.

     “I need your help,” she says. “I want you to touch me.”

     Sukuna smiles.

     Slowly, agonizingly slow, his lower right hand joins hers, and together they cup her breast. He doesn’t feel her nipple under his palm because it’s trapped under hers, but he moves her hand in such a way that her lips part and heat flushes beneath the white whorls and patterns painted on her skin. Sukuna lets her guide their hand, over the warm, soft expanse of her belly, back up to the other breast. He catches the nipple between his two fingers, tweaking it just so.

     A small cry breaks the silence and it’s all he can do not to pin her to the floor. Instead, they sink down together: him on his knees, and she seated between them. He maintains the flame which illuminates them both.

     Their hands rest on her belly, fingers splayed. He strokes the tender skin idly.

     “How do you feel, Asiri?” He purrs. “There is no shame in this. Guide me that you might understand how I see you.”

     She does, guiding their hands past her belt. Slowly, hesitatingly slow, she spreads her legs apart, watches Sukuna’s eyes flare with interest then darken with desire. He lowers the flame, can see the pretty shine between her thighs. No shame, but gods above he can’t imagine her fear.

     She’s watching him in the mirror, his lower eyes remain on that moist spot between her spread thighs, his main eyes on hers. She guides their hand lower, ghosting over the swollen and moist shape of her cunt. He feels her tremble at the slightest ghost of his touch. His cocks are hard as stone, and he wants nothing more than to plunder her until she comes apart in his arms like a destroyed work of art.

     “Beautiful,” he breathes. “Every part of you. I knew it from the moment I saw you dance.”

     Šetû tries to turn her face away from their reflection, her face burning, but he doesn’t let her. Instead, she watches, fascinated, as he hooks a finger into her fundoshi and slides it aside, revealing her dark, glistening cunt to him. The firelight glitters in warm worship of those slick folds, already soaking. Sukuna licks his lips.

     “I want to touch you here,” he tells her, tracing the very lightest shape of her swollen cunt. Šetû makes a whimpering noise, hips rocking forward to ease the tension, chasing more of his touch.

     “Is this acceptable?” He asks her, sharing a grin with the darkness.

     “Yes…!” She whimpers, then moans as Sukuna slides his middle finger against her slit. Up and down, against her clit. Now she’s whimpering again, hips writhing desperately. When she undulates forward, he pushes his finger inside of her.

     Šetû’s voice erupts into a long, drawn-out moan that sees her reaching to rest her hands on his kneeling thighs for support. Sukuna shares a grin with the darkness and leans in.

     In and out, up and down. A curl of his finger. The pressure builds. It’s so hot, the fire is too hot, and she writhes, seeking more contact, more, more, more.

     “Oh…fuck…” She whines, watching their reflection as his hand pumps between her spread thighs, her hips rocking against his rhythm. “Oh…I’m…”

     “Not yet, little flower,” he groans and there is a sighing sound as the maw on his belly opens, panting as he adds a second finger, watching her toes curl as her whining and whimpering becomes moaning. Sukuna murmurs into her hair as she leans back against him.

     “Good girl,” he coos, watching as her reflection writhes in his grasp. The fire flickers and then steadies. His fingers keep moving, and Šetû feels as if she might come apart if he doesn’t do more.

     Sukuna grins, and then his palm splits into a secondary mouth. He sees Šetû seize up, her breath and voice caught in her throat as something strong, moist, and serpentine makes a pass against the sensitive bundle of nerves between her soaked folds. Confused, she looks at Sukuna, wild-eyed and questioning. He grins in response and the mouth on his palm sucks her clit between its lips, rolling the tattooed tongue over the nub again and again.

     Šetû has no more questions, because all sentient thought has been wiped from her mind. She is aware of a mewling and moaning sound, and she realizes that Sukuna is working her body so expertly that she forgets herself.

     The mouth on his palm sucks harder, more rhythmically, his fingers work tirelessly inside of her. She can hear how wet she is, now: a slick, erotic sound that makes her want to shut her thighs in shame. Instead, she opens them wider, begs Sukuna for more of him. Sukuna won’t oblige a request she’s too ignorant to be sure of, but he knows this is more than enough for one night.

     Faster, another curl of his fingers while the mouth on his palm torments her clit with sucks and licks. Šetû makes a noise she’s never heard before, her nails digging into the linen of Sukuna’s hakama, wishing it was simply his flesh.

     “Do you hear that, Asiri?” He asks and she is brought back from the brink just enough to be cognizant of the sound of his fingers pumping in and out of her. A wet and slippery squelch that seems loud in the silence of the room. She nods dumbly, panting as she tries desperately to work herself to orgasm.

     “You won’t need opium after this,” he tells her. “Because from now on, I’ll be working those nightmares out of you.”

     Šetû meets his eyes, hazed with pleasure and overwhelmed by the sensations of his hands alone.

     “Come for me,” he orders and all at once the tension snaps and a wild sound that is both moan and scream tears out of her throat. Her hips move of their own accord, grinding against his working hand to prolong the sensation that she’d never felt before until now. She trembles in front of the mirror, spending her energy on additional mewls and whimpers. Sukuna groans at the feel of her cunt’s lust-saturated walls tightening and fluttering around his fingers and briefly imagines how good it would feel around his cocks.

     It is only when her trembles subside, and she is limp and boneless in his arms that he withdraws his fingers. She yelps but then watches in the mirror as he brings his hand to his mouth. The fingers are glistening in the light of the divine flame. Her face burns again, but then he sucks his fingers into his mouth, moaning as if he has just tasted something new and pleasurable to his tongue.

     “I knew you’d taste good,” he muses, and two of his hands caress her idly. Šetû tries not to dwell on whether she should feel shame or no. Before she can finish processing, Sukuna douses the flame and then gathers her in his arms. He carries her to another sectioned off area of the bedroom where there is a large, beaten copper tub.

     “Lord Sukuna…” She finds her voice again, feeling as if her soul is knit back into the body.

     “Just Sukuna here, little flower,” he says. “I’d say we’re beyond formalities right now.”

     Heat burns in her cheeks as she watches him pull a lever. Water spills into the tub. When it’s full, he swipes his hand, lighting the coals beneath the tub. Šetû, still carried in his arms, watches this, fascinated.

     “Are you about to boil me alive and eat me?” She asks and Sukuna is about to retort when he hears the cheeky note in her tone. One of his hands pinches her and she yelps.

     “No, I am going to bathe you, and then you are going to sleep without opium tonight.”

     Šetû smiles as he lowers her into the water, testing its warmth before it touches her skin. She sinks into the tub until it’s up to her shoulders. Sukuna sits on a stool next to the tub and begins, without question, scrubbing her down. She laughs but then realizes that something is different, as if a chain on her soul has been shattered loose, freeing up part of herself she hadn’t realized she’d been trying to bury all these months.

     Sukuna scrubs in silence, and eventually the water is milky as the last of the body paint is washed away. Šetû is boneless and replete as she stands in the tub, and he passes her the silk absorbing sheet to dry off. Then, she hesitates.

     “Sleep here?” She asks. “With you?”

     Sukuna stares at her as if she’s an idiot.

     “Where else did you plan on sleeping tonight? You may return to your room if you wish.” He shrugs, then smirks. “Your brazier stays here, however.”

     Her eyes go wide and then he barks with laughter.

     “Your face…” he cackles. “You may go if that is your wish. Or stay if you wish it. I believe you learned a valuable lesson this night, and tomorrow, you and I will test that lesson outside.”

     Šetû gives an indignant scoff. “I am not letting you do that to me outside, Sukuna!”

     Sukuna blinks, confused, then laughs again.

     “Sometimes I think you’re shrewd,” he says. “And then I realize that you are also an idiot. Go to bed. No opium. Tomorrow morning, I test your breathing in battle.”

     Šetû grabs his haori, throwing it on, as well as snatching up her brazier. She heads toward the door, then stops.

     “Thank you,” she says to him. He stares at her as if he wants to say something, then sucks his teeth.

     “I’d better see some improvement in the morning,” is all he says. Šetû takes her turn to share a smile with the darkness. Clutching his haori tight over her naked body, she opens the door.

     “Goodnight, Sukuna,” she says, knowing that tomorrow she will revert back to honorifics. Sukuna does not respond, but there’s a subtle dip of his chin as she slips out of the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. Her bells jingle as she heads down the hall to her room, waiting until she collapses in the bed to let the full of her grin pull at her face. Replete, she doesn’t even notice when her eyes slip shut, and she sinks into the soft, amniotic darkness of true rest.

     The morning dawns clear and bright, and the single plum blossom tree in the meditation garden boasts clusters of green buds, seeking the sunlight.

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[welcometothehornyjail]

just IMAGINE, imagine bottomkuna whimpering and moaning and groaning in high pitch on your dick/strap-on.. i bet he would be real tight.. on top of being a bottomkuna/submissivekuna lover, im also a firm virginkuna believer, so youd be taking his virginity too 😈

Unfortunately, jjk is a fandom that refuses to explore other ascepts of characters and just slaps on a big fat label "big muscular dominant daddy who degrades you for the love of it" even if it's wildly out of character (best example is Nanami lmao) so searching for anything involving the opposite is a massive pain..

That won't stop my fantasies though

Horny Jail's Anonymous Thirsties

Please remember this is a confessional series; you may interact however you like, but you must always maintain respectfulness and civility with the confessor.

I agree with you. This idea needs to be explored more.