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phyx-m · 28 days ago

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Beneath The Silk | True form Sukuna x Reader

🔗 Masterlist

Chapter 26: The Other Daughter

Content warning: Sukuna, cannibalism, violence, murder, blood, gore, threats, threats of cannibalism, implied threats against women and children, implied threats against everyone?

🔗 Songs for this chapter:

Fallen Paradise - Hocico Stranger Than Kindness - Fever Ray Treacle And Revenge - Frayale

* * * * *

Chapter 25 | Chapter 27

* * * * *

A month before the union…

“Sukuna Ryomen, I’m here to escort you from here.”

The King of Curses tilts down his chin, his crimson eyes thinning as he takes a long look at the northerner bowing before him. The man is tall and thickly built, carrying the physicality of a warrior, likely chosen to bring him to the snake as a gesture of neutrality.

This so-called neutrality is a disguise, a carefully crafted deception dressed in costume meant to impress him.

It won’t.

“Let’s get this over with then,” Sukuna drones, gesturing toward the clustering treeline ahead, beyond which a vast, empty field stretches. No villages speck the landscape—just flat, open ground. The kind of place where a battle could easily ignite.

It also marks the divide between his territory and that of the Kasai clan—a neutral boundary where north meets south. An ideal setting to negotiate the union of two people.

The northerner turns and moves ahead, pressing through the lush summer greenery, deliberately putting distance between himself and the King of Curses.

Sukuna is well aware this might be a trap. He’s also aware of the weapon the man is concealing. He can feel its presence, secured beneath his kimono.

It’s only a matter of time before the idiot turns to strike.

A foolish mistake.

He’ll kill him anyway, just for the insult of bringing it.

He hopes the man will take it.

Unbothered by the potential threat, Sukuna threads his upper hands into the wide sleeves of his kimono while his lower ones rest lightly, folded against his torso. A tightly fitted underlayer lies below his garment. The summer air steams hot against a solid cerulean blue sky, the day thick with sticky heat. But this extra piece of clothing isn’t meant for comfort or absorbing sweat. Its purpose is far more practical—a barrier between his skin and whatever else he’s about to walk into.

Soon, he is led farther and farther away, from where his mount is tethered to a tree in the forest behind him. Ahead, the open field expands wide, with a lone tent rising from the grass—his destination.

As Sukuna approaches the edge of the treeline, where branches tangle and claw for sunlight, he slows, his red gaze sweeping the area. Only then does he notice—the northerner has vanished.

Of course.

A trap. A fucking trap.

The corners of his mouth begin to hook up.

Then, without warning, the air sings sharp.

In half a breath, the man is behind him, the cool edge of his weapon slicing toward the King of Curses’ neck.

“Keh keh, I see you,” he laughs, stepping aside with ease.

Clang!

The blade misses, driving into the ground and tearing through the wildflowers at their feet.

Sukuna moves, shifting his weight, his lower arms hidden within his kimono while his upper arms unfurl.

“Is that it?! I’ve slaughtered women and children who fought harder than this,” he taunts, that eternal smirk carved into his face widens as he turns fully to face the northerner.

He looks the man over, unimpressed. How could this be the whelp they’d sent to kill him? Sukuna sees only parts—a body cobbled together, not a worthy opponent.

They’ll need to try harder. To send something better. Someone better.

And he’ll wait for it.

The man snarls, rage transforming his features as he retrieves his weapon from the ground and raises it again. A breeze stirs their clothing, the only movement in the passing calm.

“Try again,” Sukuna hums arrogantly, his upper arms curving in a welcoming gesture. “Show me another clumsy swing of your blade. I’ll even stand perfectly still for you.”

The way he sees it, this fool has two choices: prove he deserves to stand before him or prove he doesn’t. It’s only fair to offer him this chance before he dies—an opportunity to show his worth. There’s a certain satisfaction in watching someone strain against their limits, clawing for every ounce of potential, only to see what they might become in their finest moment before reducing them to nothing but sliced flesh.

“I’ll tear your grotesque fucking limbs and all your skin from your bones, demon!” the man screams, hatred crawling in his eyes as he charges recklessly.

Sukuna’s mouth widens. The insult tickles him. Those words amuse him. He wants to laugh. To tell him there’s going to be no enjoyment from his cursed bones, but he doesn’t bother.

Instead, he spreads all four arms wide, inviting chaos.

“Yes, that’s it!” Red eyes shine, flaring open and hungry as the distance between them collapses.

The man runs, keeps coming, feet pounding through the grass, each step fueled by seething, festering hatred. It seems to grow within him like a spreading fungus, consuming reason, leaving only rage. Making him nothing more than a stupid beast unaware of his surroundings.

With impressive velocity, the weapon arcs upward, aiming for its mark.

Sukuna doesn’t move. He doesn’t need to.

The air grows cold.

This will end with one simple flic—

A dull, wet sound punctures the air. The man screams. A protruding icicle erupts through his lower stomach from behind. Pearled droplets of blood splatter across the grass, staining it a vivid scarlet. When he crumbles to his knees on the ground, his shrieking grows in agony.

Sukuna’s smirk fades, pressing into a rigid pout.

“Apologies, Master Sukuna.” Uraume steps forward, having been trailing them, and circles the now-whimpering man, blood pooling from his mutilated gut. “He was rather annoying.”

“Mhm,” Sukuna grunts, his disappointment mild but present as he steps forward.

Lowering his heavy frame, he crouches, allowing his presence to crowd the trembling figure. Inside his layers of clothing, his stomach maw stirs. The mouth ripples open, its tongue laving hungrily across his abdomen, tasting the promise of nourishment.

“Which organ should I consume, hm?” He reaches out slowly, walks his fingers across the man’s chest, then down, taking a moment to press his index into the open wound and feel its warmth. Uraume’s ice now melted from all the hot blood. “How about your kidneys?”

Groaning in agony, the northerner's mouth opens and closes like a small fish drowning in air.

“Nothing to say? Then how about your lungs? We’ll see how long you last without breath.”

Another suffering whimper. Sukuna slants closer. Through the tiny sliver of distance, he can almost taste the man’s sweat that beads on his forehead.

“Or, let’s make this simple. The heart.” He straightens slightly, tilting his head as though weighing the idea.

Considering the confrontation ahead, that organ feels like the perfect choice.

“Glutting on your heart feels… appropriate.” The monster leans in, his lower right hand gliding to the spot where the muscle beats frantically against the man’s chest. Slowly, he brushes aside the fabric, exposing the flesh. “Any last words?”

“F-fuck you!” The northerner hisses, spittle cresting at his bottom lip.

Sukuna tips his head back and chuckles cruelly.

“Is that all?” he muses, fingertips teasing and applying pressure to the bones, to his sternum. “The flavour of your hatred-filled heart… I imagine it will taste rather sweet.”

Pressure.

The man groans.

More pressure.

Red eyes narrow.

A bit more. And then—crack!

So easy.

The man shrieks and flails. The frantic movements scatter grass and dirt as he desperately tries to escape.

A flick! Another crack as Sukuna severs the bones inside the chest cavity, breaking through and exposing the pulsing organ within. Hands dipping inside, he peels back the ribs like a pair of wings. The man’s blood mists warm and salty over his face. He doesn’t mind.

Curling his fingers around the trunk of the arteries, there’s another tug. He unwinds and retrieves the heart, dragging it free from the man’s squirming body, the nerve endings dangling soggy between them.

“This is the best the snake could muster?” Sukuna sneers and straightens, the heart dense and warm in his palm. The northerner’s body twitches once before going lifeless, his head falling softly to rest into the grass.

For his ruin. They’ll need to try harder.

Much, much harder.

With half-lidded eyes, Sukuna regards the organ lazily, then raises it to his lips. Mouth parting, his teeth sink into the wet muscle, and he tears.

One bite. He swallows, savouring the tang.

Metallic. Salty.

Perfect.

He licks his bottom lip and glances at Uraume, blood smearing his chin.

“Come. I’m sure our host is eager to see me,” he says dryly, the heart still in hand as he walks toward the distant tent.

Horses shift and whicker in the field as they approach. Guards, their clothing proudly bearing the embroidered crest of a serpent, stand at attention. Everyone’s gaze follows Sukuna and Uraume wearily as the pair arrive.

Without hesitation, the King of Curses pushes through the tent’s opening. The lack of light inside is abrupt, the air, warm, stagnant, and heavy under the cotton fabric that barely allows a breeze. A few steps inside, a line of men stands braced and armed to the teeth.

At the back, perched on a raised platform beside an ornate silkscreen, sits the bastard—Kasai Takuma—flanked by a man at his left, waiting.

Choking the now half-eaten heart in his palm, Sukuna walks forward.

Everyone and everything falls deathly still.

Drip, drip, drip.

Blood leaks between his fingers, leaving red trails in his wake, soaking into the woven mats underfoot. Reaching the edge of the platform, he stops, towering over the seated man.

It had been seven years since Sukuna was last this close to him. Back then, he had likely been dismissed as nothing more than a calamity. A rare phenomenon that swept across the northern land in a single, brutal night. But now? Now, the snake knew precisely who he was.

And he, of course, remembered what this man had done.

“Lord Sukuna, you honour me with your…” Lord Kasai begins, eyes dancing between the King of Curses’ face and the pulpy mess in his hand. “…presence,” he finishes smoothly, inclining his head—perhaps to recover his composure, or perhaps to conceal the fact that he had just attempted to have him assassinated.

Sukuna remains quiet but raises his eyebrow, making a silent point to get on with it.

“Well,” the snake clears his throat, gesturing before him, his voice shifting to a formal tone. “Shall we discuss terms regarding our treaty?”

Sukuna lets the heart slop to the ground, where it lands with a splatter. Slowly, he lowers himself onto the mat, leaning heavily on his upper right arm, while his lower arms remain folded inside his kimono. Behind him, Uraume stands in silence, hands tucked neatly into their sleeves, ever watchful.

“Before we begin,” Lord Kasai announces, nudging his head to his right, “there is someone here who is eager to meet you.”

The King of Curses doesn’t turn. He doesn’t need to. His eyes remain forward on the scourge sitting before him, but with the lower right one, he catches the movement in his periphery. Two attendants step forward, their hands reaching to draw back the silk screen that has been sitting idle, hiding something—or someone.

A faint rustle of fabric whispers, marking the newcomer's arrival. Light footsteps follow next—one, two, three of them.

A woman steps into his view, swaddled in the finest silk kimono, colours of pale fabric decorating her.

The faint lantern light plays tricks across her features, shadows consuming half of her face as she bows.

That face.

He remembers.

Sukuna shifts subtly, retrieving his upper arms and folding all four neatly inside his kimono.

“Hello, my Lord.” Gracefully, the woman lifts her chin. “I’m the daughter of Lord Kasai.” Her lashes lower as the corners of her lips curve into a delicate, charming smile—the kind designed to tempt and loosen clothing. “But since I will soon be your wife, you may call me Yuna.”

Silence follows. A weighted quiet.

Sukuna says nothing.

Motionless, he watches as the snake’s daughter kneels tenderly beside her father, directly across from him. She is well-taught and well-mannered.

One might even call her desirable and lovely.

Her fingernails, dyed a soft red to match her lips, catches his attention as she smooths out her kimono. A soft glide to rid the wrinkles. His lower eyes remain fixed on them—watchful of how close she gets, and, more so, of where those vile little fingers might wander. Meanwhile, his upper eyes refuse to leave hers, locking them together in an unbroken stare.

Silent. Both of them, just staring.

Lord Kasai’s voice eventually breaks the quiet, his words droning on and on about treaties and terms and this union.

Sukuna sits and listens, or rather, pretends to.

He doesn’t care about the treaty’s promises—a truce, retention of the land he’s subjugated, a cessation of attacks on the north.

None of this matters.

Why should a piece of parchment—or this man, who took from him—dictate his rule or his fate?

Yet he doesn’t mind. He can sit here, waiting patiently, as he has before. Patient, but waiting impatiently.

What’s a bit more?

“No.”

Or perhaps not.

The single word has Lord Kasai’s brows arching. He glances up from the parchment, narrow jaw tightening to suppress his confusion.

“Excuse me?” he asks, his tone strained, the pretense of respect slipping.

Sukuna clicks his tongue behind his mouth, and his attention drags from Yuna to the snake.

“No,” he repeats calmly.

The tent falls silent. The atmosphere shifts.

Behind him, the men shuffle nervously. Sukuna doesn’t need to see them to know their hands are drifting toward their weapons.

He smirks, and with ease, the King of Curses pulls his upper right hand from his kimono and begins to roll the gnarled red muscle on the mat with a single finger. The light pressure bursts it slightly, and a trickle of blood stains the ground.

“I find your devotion to this treaty—this union—fascinating,” he says, freeing his upper left arm and forming a fist to lean his face against. “So devoted, in fact, that you’d offer me the so-called gem of the Kasai clan.”

Over the years, he’s steadily uncovered more and more about this family. Little by little, intriguing details have come to light—hidden truths, darker secrets—things he’s sure they’d rather he didn’t know.

“Tell me,” Sukuna drawls, his words flowing smooth and unhurried. “Is it love for your power that drives you to offer your daughter to something like me? Or is it something else entirely?”

Desperation. Control. Deception.

Lord Kasai says nothing.

The silence stretches.

Sukuna lets the weight of the moment hang, then shatters it with a soft, dark chuckle.

“You see, I never knew the ones who spawned me. Never saw their faces or learned their names. And I believe that was for the best. Some legacies, after all, aren’t worth inheriting.”

He offers no further elaboration. The truth of what this man has done is a history Sukuna keeps for himself—one he shares with no one.

“But,” Sukuna continues, his grin widening, blood neatly staining his rows of white teeth red. “I’ve learned something about you and yours.”

The deep grooves in the corners of Lord Kasai’s mouth tighten. Yuna shifts, her hips tilting to adjust her strict posture.

Another bit of pressure, and the heart bleeds again. Droplets drool onto the ground, the mats beneath greedily soaking them up like long-awaited rain.

“And what might that be?” the snake asks tersely.

Sukuna patiently lowers his fist from his cheek.

“You don’t have just one daughter,” he states, holding up a finger. “You have two.” A second finger joins the first.

Yuna stiffens, her hands forming tight fists against her thighs.

Sukuna lets his hand drop to his lap, the grin fading from his face, replaced by an expression of cold, cruel detachment.

“I want the other one. You’ll give me the other one,” he demands harshly.

“No!” Yuna’s polished facade crumbles in an instant, her voice breaking with desperation. “Father, please! You can’t let him do that!”

Lord Kasai silences her with a vicious glare.

“Quiet!” he barks.

Sukuna leans back slightly, watching the spectacle unfold. He takes pleasure in the panic in Yuna’s voice—a sound born of true affection for her sister, however misplaced. Affection she seems willing to cannibalize and twist if it serves her own ends.

“Please,” she begs her father again, her brows tugging together as tears gather. “She’s too soft. She won’t survive him!”

True. But that was, after all, the point.

One of Yuna’s arms extends, her hand reaching for her father in a plea. He recoils, jerking away from her touch. Sukuna’s mouth gleefully widens, much like a wolf’s would.

Almost instantly, Lord Kasai’s hand sweeps back, ready to strike her across the face. But before he can, there’s a sudden movement to his left. A blade is pushed into the back of his neck.

A warning.

His arcing hand freezes midair.

The man who had been seated quietly beside him all this time—the one who seemed perfectly aligned with the clan head—now steps forward, his blade firm against Kasai’s skin.

Interesting.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the man murmurs, voice calm as he presses the metal just enough to draw a line of blood. Yet, under his smooth control, his eyes crack with anger.

Sukuna chuckles.

Their destruction will come from within their own clan.

“A snake consuming itself, indeed,” he spits, a demonic grin splitting his face. “What an interesting little family and clan you have, my Lord.” His four eyes flit between the three, dissecting the tangled web of alliances and betrayals.

He already knew where most of the hooks were buried, where the strings were tied. All that remained was to pull them free—whether all at once or, better yet, one by one. Patiently. Painfully.

For her, not for me.

“Now,” Sukuna hums, leaning back as he draws their attention onto himself. “Do we have an agreement?”

Lord Kasai remains silent, his gaze darting nervously between the others. A thick bead of sweat slithers down his neck, settling in the hollow of his throat.

Pathetic.

It’s Yuna who speaks first.

“Please, my Lord. You can’t have her. Just take me instead,” she pleads, her voice trembling with desperation, though he hears her subtle performance.

Sukuna clicks his tongue in irritation.

“It’s your choice, snake,” he comments, his patience wearing thin as he fixes his gaze on Lord Kasai.

He’s tired of their squabbling, tired of her pleading.

There is only one thing he wants.

One tiny, fucking thing.

And he will have it.

His face turns eerily lifeless, his eyes hollow and devoid of pity.

“If you refuse me,” Sukuna continues, “I will return. Not to raze your land, this time. But I’ll finally begin with your clan.”

The man with the blade at Lord Kasai’s neck finally withdraws, stepping back in silence.

“First, I’ll slaughter the women and children. And when I’m done with them, I’ll eat them. Piece by piece.” His gaze sharpens as he leans forward. “A year later, I’ll come back for the men.” A lazy gesture behind him. “Drag them all away, their blood still warm as I consume them before your eyes. And then, finally, I’ll come for you. All of you.” He points to the three and pauses. “By then, your name will mean nothing. And when all that remains of your legacy is a pile of bones, I’ll leave only one alive. So, choose. Do you hand her over, or do I make a feast of your entire clan first? Or—”

He pauses.

Temptation stirs.

A heartbeat passes.

Sukuna leans back, movements fluid, as his lower hands slip free from his kimono, like an insect emerging from its protective cocoon. They come together with purpose. Thumbs extended, index fingers curling downward.

“I could just—”

His middle and ring fingers snap upward.

Yuna swallows. All three of them shift.

“—kill you all…”

Urgent murmurs ripple through the men behind.

“…right now…”

The last two fingers, his pinkies, curl inward.

“Ryōi—”

“She’s yours!” the snake blurts, his words tumbling in haste. “You will have my youngest daughter.”

Yuna's hunches inward with defeat while her lip trembles.

Sukuna bares his teeth in a horrid smile.

Good. He wants them alive. Force-feeding someone incapable of seeing requires… inspiration. Slowly, he lowers his hands, fingers parting, allowing the handsign to dissipate.

“Then it’s settled. You have my word—you’ll have your treaty.” The final words drip from his mouth. Then, he rises, leaving the bloody organ abandoned at his feet, on the ground where he’d sat.

His gaze shifts, clashing with Yuna’s once more. Her eyes flicker, her features cracking. A dangerous, dangerous woman when denied. Hatred twists her face, her jaw tight enough to pulse.

I see you, serpent. I know what you are.

Sukuna’s red-stained teeth curve into another sharp, knowing smile.

And I’ll see you again.

Without a backward glance, he strides toward the exit, Uraume moving silently behind him, their steps a whisper against the mats.

“In one month,” Sukuna calls over his shoulder. “You’ll come south—and bring her to me.”

He doesn’t wait to hear a response.

Stepping outside, the stifling air of the tent gives way to a soft breeze brushing against his skin and garments.

One month.

One more month of waiting.

He can wait. He’s good at it. He’s had seven years to perfect it—patient but waiting impatiently.

Waiting for you. To have you. To keep you.

To see you again.

Though not for the reasons he should.

* * * * *

Moments ago…

“Say that again…”

Standing before you in the grove, the darkness of the trees casts your husband in colours of the earth—hues of ochre, midnight blue, shadows upon shadows. Heavy. Deep. Dark.

Despite the chaotic laughter that had burst from him moments ago, when he lowers his head from the sky, his red eyes flash with new intensity, as if the words you just spoke have woken something ancient—a creature stirring in the depths of a cave.

Hungry. He was hungry.

Sukuna takes a closer step, a slow, heel-to-toe, through the browning grass that crackles under his weight. The sound scrapes against your nerves, goosebumps pebbling up your body. The grove around you seems to grow colder with his approach.

For a fractured heartbeat, you feel as though you’ve been here before.

This. Him. Advancing like this.

You press the heel of your palm into your left eye, trying to retrieve the thought—or memory—but it slips away.

“Say. It. Again,” Sukuna bites out in fragments, his red eyes narrowing, predator to prey.

You drop your hand to your side.

No. He wasn’t hungry.

Bloodthirsty.

Refusing to back down, you swallow your fear and meet his gaze.

“I want you to kill everyone in the Kasai cla—”

His upper right hand snaps out, clamping around your throat and cutting you off. He forces you backward, the rough bark of a yew tree digging into your spine as he pushes you against it. His towering frame eclipses the faint beams of moonlight dappling through the branches.

“Do you have any fucking idea what you’re asking of me?” he snarls into your face.

The question throws you—it’s not a challenge to the act itself, but a demand to know if you truly understand the weight of your request.

His lower hands press against the tree on either side, palms sinking into the wood, trapping you. The pulse in your throat pounds wildly beneath his palm.

“Yes.” The word ambles from your lips, unsteady, as you fight to stay steady.

Suddenly, his mouth stretches wide, the corners pulling back, showing his sharp canines press over his lower teeth.

“Do you?” he murmurs.

Slowly, agonizingly, he leans closer to where he has you pinned, his breathing calm, but you can hear it in his chest.

Closer.

Close enough that, for a moment, you wonder if he’s about to kiss you.

You stare at each other.

“You want to watch me tear apart your entire clan?” he breathes, bringing his face before yours, mouth parting. “Watch them split belly to groin? Watch them scream, crawl, and bleed as they die?”

Your mind empties when the hand at your neck moves to the back of your head, wrapping the length of your hair tightly around his fist. He yanks your head back, baring your throat, and presses his pelvis into you. A sharp breath escapes your lungs under the force of his dominance.

“Is this truly what you want?” His voice drops as he jabs two fingers into the top of your sternum.

Another hidden question.

“Yes,” you repeat, breathless.

“Say it again.”

“Yes.” Stronger this time.

His four eyes study your face, his gaze starting at your lips and ending at your eyes. You feel the stare. It bores into you, searching, looking, waiting for something—hesitation, weakness, doubt? You almost want to shut your eyes and look away, but you don’t.

“Why should I give you this?” He cocks his head as he asks quietly, mustering you.

Why?

Because if you do this, my father and Onishi will die, and this nightmare will end.

Because if you do this, I’ll finally be free—from them. From you.

Because if you do this, Yuna will be safe and unbound by expectations or duty.

Because if you do this, perhaps I can grasp a life of my own.

But that is too much honesty to give him.

“Because you’ve seen how I’m treated,” you say instead, your words clipped, emotion tucked tightly away. “My father—”

The abuse. The anger. The hatred. The shame. The regret.

You stop yourself.

Bottle it up. Don’t let it out.

The anger you feel, the hatred you feel.

“It’s what I want.” Your voice steadies, cold and unemotional, erasing any doubt.

What you’re asking for, the betrayal, the magnitude behind it.

His jaw tightens, his eyes steady in the dark, as if trying to see through you. To find even the smallest crack.

“I want this.”

Kill. Take. Find.

Another pause. His mouth twitches into a smirk.

“If I do this, there’s a condition,” he drawls, twisting your hair tighter in his fist, the strands scraping against your scalp, your head tipping back painfully.

“I’m listening,” you breathe through clenched teeth.

He urges you closer. The space between you shrinks to nothing. If you leaned forward, your lips would touch.

“A vow will be placed between us,” he coos before his upper left hand sinks to grasp the curve of your waist, his thumb brushing along your hip bone. “One to be called in at a time of my choosing. And when that time comes, you will give it to me.”

A vow.

Shit.

A terrible feeling rises in your throat, sinking deep into your stomach.

Telling him no means your father lives. Onishi lives.

Telling him yes means binding yourself to Sukuna. A contract with the King of Curses—a gamble you cannot win.

It's stupid and reckless.

But what choice do you have?

Do what needs to be done.

Your sister’s voice, in your head.

Maybe you can escape him before he enacts it.

“Fine. I accept,” you say calmly, forcing the words that seal the pact. “What is it you want from me?”

His grin splits wide, patchwork shadows from the grove draping him like a second skin. His lower hands drag away from the tree, slipping to the small of your back. He pulls you forward, urging you to step closer, as you move through scattered leaves while he moves backward. Each step guides you toward the grove’s center, where he finally stops. You stop with him.

He stares down at you. Scarlet eyes burning against the dark.

Again. That feeling from before.

Leaning down, his mouth brushes against your ear, making you inhale deep into your lungs.

“You have no idea the things I could demand of you in exchange for what I’m about to do,” he whispers lowly, dragging his lips across the curve of your ear, and your knees threaten to fold. “But for now… you’ll have to be patient.”

Your pulse races as he pulls back, releasing your hair. The cage of his arms falls away. Without another glance, he turns and strides toward the edge of the grove.

For a heartbeat, you hesitate, then gather the hem of your kimono and rush after him, following his shadow out of the grove and back toward the compound.

Silently, through the garden, you trail behind him.

Then, inside, you spill into the corridor.

Quiet.

Where is everyone?

The two of you begin to move through the dim passageway, the same one you walked not hours ago when it had been a chaotic mess of people. Now, it’s nothing more than a deserted stretch of wooden floors and walls. Abandoned. Painfully silent.

No drunken revelry, no shameless fucking, no voices.

But it always seems to happen this way—on nights when everything holds its breath, waiting to exhale.

Just like seven years ago, on his arrival.

And now, he’s coming again. Death is coming. And it’s with you at its back.

Traitor.

A harsh wave of nausea rolls from your stomach to your throat. You fight the urge to vomit and swallow it back down.

It doesn’t matter if they brand you a traitor. None of that matters now. What matters is what’s about to happen.

You let a spark of fire in your belly grow, burning away your doubt and fueling your focus.

I’m doing this for her. Then she’ll take care of me, like she promised.

Walking ahead of you, you watch as Sukuna’s upper arms reach for his burnt umber obi, untying it in a single fluid motion. Behind him, his lower hands tug the rest of the garment free. It slips away, revealing the expanse of his tattooed back above dark hakama. He casts the cloth aside without a glance.

Your eyes climb upward, drawn to the motion of his shoulders. His gait is mesmerizing—brutal in its rhythm, each step a controlled shift of limbs and muscle, coiled and efficient. The sight of him sets your blood rushing in your ears, your heart knocking against your ribs.

An inexorable force.

At the corridor’s end, the attendant from before startles at your approach, their eyes widening.

“Get the fuck out,” Sukuna commands, flicking two fingers toward the open garden door.

They don’t hesitate, vanishing in seconds.

Alone, Sukuna turns and kneels before you. The floor creaks faintly under his weight as his hands abruptly part the front of your kimono, revealing your legs.

“These come off,” he murmurs, tapping your footwear with two fingers before sliding his hand to your tabi socks. “These as well.”

Holding your garment open, he watches you slip your feet free from your footwear, nudging them aside. With trembling fingers, you bend to remove your socks next, leaving them discarded on the ground.

Without warning, his lower hands grip the hem of your kimono and tear the fabric in a seamless motion, splitting it to your ankles. The ruined ends are tossed carelessly to the floor.

“What was that for?” you ask, your toes wiggling against the cool wood as you try to ground yourself.

“Bit of advice.” He sets the remaining fabric back into place. “Don’t step into enemy territory with loose ends like that. You’ll need to run.” He rises to his feet, towering above you, and you follow his movement with watchful eyes. “It’s a liability.”

You nod faintly.

It makes sense.

He straightens with a smirk.

“Besides,” he adds smoothly, “we can’t have you scrambling around, slipping and taking a tumb—”

“Don’t fucking say it.” You interrupt with a nervous, broken laugh. His mouth twitches, amused, before he leans in to gather your hair, tucking it neatly into the back of your garment.

Another loose end secured.

“Thank you…” you mumble quietly.

His eyes soften momentarily, turning almost gentle.

“Don’t forget to breathe.” His fingertips brush your abdomen, his hand splaying wide, pressing just enough to feel its rise and fall. His gaze locks onto yours, serious now. “And stay out of my way, or you’ll become a stain like the rest.”

You swallow and nod.

That wouldn’t be a problem.

Sukuna taps the scabbard hidden in your obi.

“You won’t need that either,” he remarks smugly.

Your eyes flick down to his hand, then to your own gloved ones.

Maybe it’s time to tell him the truth—why you were sent to him in the first place, chosen over your sister, the better choice for a wife, and what you really are, how you were sent to kill him.

He pulls away, stepping toward the door. His hands reach for it, and goosebumps pull up along your skin.

“Wait.”

He pauses, casting you a piercing sidelong glance, the swell of his tattooed shoulder partially obscuring his face.

It stops you cold.

The words stick lost in your throat.

What if the truth leads to your death at his hands? What if he sees this as a betrayal? You’ve been living at his shrine under a guise, all the while carrying this secret.

The risk feels too great.

You swallow back the words, letting the secret fester. It’s for the best—or so you tell yourself. Yet, deep down, a voice whispers that you’ve chosen self-preservation over honesty. One day, you might regret it.

Not if I’m gone.

“The name you want is Onishi,” you say confidently, lifting your chin and giving him exactly what he came here for.

There’s a pause.

All four of his hands twitch.

“Broken nose?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Was that your doing?”

“Yes.”

Sukuna’s nostrils flare, and a feral satisfaction washes over his face.

“He dies first,” he growls with heavy aggression.

Then he turns and, with a brutal motion, flings the doors open.

Bang!

The sound crashes through the corridor, making you jump.

Sukuna steps in.

Every head within the main hall turns. Every conversation dies.

Don’t forget to breathe.

Inhale.

Gracefully, as though he owns the space, the King of Curses stalks deeper inside. His four arms hang relaxed, his bare upper body bathed in the pulsing light of the stone lanterns lining the edges.

The concubines scattered across the room—some partially naked, others entwined with men—understand the danger immediately. Quietly and smoothly, they gather themselves and retreat, slipping out through the far-left corner of the room.

Exhale.

Bare feet tapping softly against the floor, you step inside after him, keeping your distance as he commanded. You take your place at his back, standing slightly off to his right.

Joining him.

A slow, creeping horror descends over the room. Faces twist, expressions collapsing into ugly shapes of dread.

No one moves. No one speaks.

And the ones who know you? Their eyes scream with murderous accusation.

Strange, how once upon a time, that might have hurt.

Your eyes cut away, shifting to Sukuna. He stands motionless, his four eyes sweeping over the crowd of roughly forty people. One of his fingers taps rhythmically—he’s counting again. But then his gaze thins, narrowing as confusion gives way to cold realization.

He snaps his head toward you.

“This is not everyone,” he hisses. “There are some missing.”

Your eyes dart around.

He’s right.

Your sister is gone, as planned. Likely long gone, riding away on her horse.

Good.

But Onishi… Onishi is missing, too. So is the black-haired woman who deliberately bumped you earlier. And the entire Zen’in clan.

Still, most of your clan and another remain present.

Suddenly, Sukuna steps closer, his upper lip peeling back in a snarl.

“What the fuck did you do?” he growls, his voice just shy of a shout. “Where the hell is she?”

She?

You shake your head, unable—or unwilling—to answer.

If he thinks that killing everyone in your clan, means he’ll get to your sister, he’s blind to who you are. You would rot all four of his arms off before he could lay a single fucking finger on her.

Inhale.

Your eyes dance back to the room, finally locking onto a lone figure seated at the other end.

Father.

He rises to his feet. His hawkish eyes have never been forgiving, and he looks at you like you're unworthy of even existing.

You incline your chin defiantly. Remembering every vile word, every scornful strike and every hurled insult. Twenty-five years of malice for this man.

Sukuna’s attention shifts. He turns, aligning his body with your gaze, directing it toward the man you’ve silently cursed a thousand times over.

But something happens.

Something you didn’t predict.

Something Sukuna might not have either.

Because from where you stand—beside the greatest threat in the room, the greatest threat in Japan—you had expected the command to be for everyone to rush the King of Curses.

But you are wrong.

So fucking wrong.

Your father’s arm stretches out, a single finger lifting—not to point at Sukuna, but at you.

You. His daughter.

Sister. Protector. Tool. The last one, no longer.

Your eyes dart to Sukuna’s. His burn with bright, hot, unforgiving rage.

Exhale.

His energy unfurls, snaking outward, filling the room with oppressive, suffocating weight.

The loud clang of frenzied metal vibrates through the air as everyone present throws themselves to their feet, drawing their weapons in unison.

Inhale.

A stillness settles over the room. The hounds are waiting, their eyes trained on their master and you, their prey.

They wait.

And wait.

And—

“Fucking kill her!!!”

Teeth agape, your father screams the order.

You forget to exhale.

Sukuna moves.

And all hell breaks loose.

* * * * *

🔗 Chapter 27

#sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #dark content #heian sukuna #beneath the silk #dark fantasy #jjk fanfic #true form sukuna #sukuna smut #sukuna fanfic

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