Charlieeee @charliemwrites - Tumblr Blog

May 23

The Conquest of Ryomen Sukuna; 1st Edition

Ryomen Sukuna is as revered as he is feared. He is beset with offerings almost constantly. Amongst his endless libations, manuscripts and scrolls began to pile up like fallen leaves. He needed a keeper of his priceless tomes, someone to organize the nearly-constant new additions and fetch volumes should he call. It was truly some twisted design of the stars that you were chosen. You find solace in the library of Sukuna's estate. Comfort in paper, comfort in ink.

Divider by @miscellaneous-misty

Posted on AO3

Content: Safe/mostly sane/consensual sex, brief eye trauma, possessive behavior, canon-typical violence including death and torture, FAB reader using she/her pronouns; See AO3 for a full list of tags/warnings

Comfort in paper, your mother used to say. Comfort in ink.

A woman accustomed to bowing her head, she found submission easier to stomach with a scroll beneath her eyes. She would occupy her flighty hands with crisp pages, drown herself in the waters of calligraphy. You used to wonder, did she find freedom there, between the characters and illustrations? Or was she just decorating the walls of a mental prison?

Even if you could ask her, you don’t think she would have an answer.

After all, you wouldn’t have one if the question was turned on you - unlikely as that is.

Comfort in paper.

It’s difficult to describe Ryomen Sukuna.

He’s inscrutable to you, not quite divine, not quite monstrous. Oh, surely his appearance is frightening, with ghastly appetites to match. A quadruplet of eyes and arms, a chiseled abdomen bisected by a jagged maw. Functional, you know all too well.

It’s one of the first things you recorded, following the sack of your family’s ancestral manor. The arm of a dissatisfying servant bitten clean off, down a mysterious gullet. Droplets of blood still decorate the kosode you wore that day. You hear the servant’s agonized cries in your dreams.

Comfort in ink.

Whatever he is, Ryomen Sukuna is as revered as he is feared. He is beset with offerings almost constantly. Tributes, sacrifices. The label is as interchangeable as his moods. Amongst his endless libations, manuscripts and scrolls began to pile up like fallen leaves.

Eventually, the master saw fit to do something with them.

The library is cool and dry, somewhat removed from the rest of the manor as Sukuna rarely finds his entertainment in reading. Should he deign to, though, disorganization is apparently an unacceptable inconvenience.

He needed a keeper of his priceless tomes, someone to organize the nearly-constant new additions and fetch volumes should he call.

It was truly some twisted design of the stars that you were chosen. A cosmic luck you’ve yet to determine as good or bad. His most faithful vassal, Uraume, found you cowering in your family’s library. Had asked if you knew your letters and numbers, then presented you to the cursed king as a useful war prize.

Books are your sanctuary now as they were then; you hardly leave for more than food and rest. And sometimes not even then. You’ve woken any number of times at your writing desk or curled up in some corner. Have skipped meals in favor of reorganizing shelves and updating the catalog.

It’s not, in fact, fear of Sukuna that dedicates you to your work.

Well… maybe it is a little.

But truly, you do love books, and the ones Sukuna is gifted are splendid. You take your joy in perusing the volumes when time permits. Comfort where you can find it.

The rest of the manor is perilous. Besides the master himself, there are curses currently in Sukuna’s favor (or at least tolerated) that roam about, preying upon various servants like yourself. Members of his harem that enjoy tormenting those they see below their status.

Not to mention the more-than-occasional gruesome displays of violence. The palace is decorated in trimmings of viscera and gore, dripping into the floorboards and staining the tatami. You’d prefer to avoid the sight (and smell) when you can.

Like your mother before, you bury yourself beneath paper and prose. Keep your eyes fixed on brush strokes and your head bent towards scrolls until everything beyond the library doors fade away.

A haven from it all, you believed.

Foolish.

It’s a mild morning when you hear the doors open some meters away - Kiro with the weekly additions. You’re perched on a step-stool, a half dozen books stacked beneath your chin. You slide another collection of poems amongst its brethren, blowing loose hair from your face.

“Please tell me there’s not another copy of Genji,” you call mildly. “I fear we’ll need another library just for those.”

“If that is all you fear, then you’ve forgotten who you serve,” a deep, all too recognizable voice sneers.

A yelp snags between your teeth. You hop off the stool and hurry around the corner, horrified to find that your ears were not deceiving you.

Ryomen Sukuna is in the library.

You drop to your knees, realize you’re still holding the books, and awkwardly hold them out in front of you to duck your head as low as you can. Pray that it’s enough to appease him when you’ve already tested his temper. He’s flayed others for less.

There’s a long, frightening moment of silence. Four of your frantic heartbeats thunder in your ears. Then Sukuna grunts.

“Bring me the atlas.”

You pause, blink. “W-which atlas, my lord? You have sixteen.”

He clicks his tongue - as if you’re wasting his time with trivialities. “The one I received last winter.”

He received three last winter, in fact. You weigh the dangers of asking for further clarification against the risk of retrieving the wrong item. Choose the latter and back away with a quiet murmur.

Your mind races as you carefully set your last task aside. Instinct guides your feet to the correct shelf, providing precious spare seconds to make your guess.

Last winter’s atlases didn’t all arrive together. Two came from a northern lord, and you remember Sukuna had barely glanced over the offerings when they were presented. Nothing about their coverings would have indicated their contents without opening them.

The third had come from a curse user that had killed a prominent jujutsu sorcerer, and brought the man’s wealth to Sukuna. And he had leafed briefly through that one.

You pluck it from the row and return to Sukuna, anxiety nearly knocking your knees out from under you. Somehow, you keep your hands and voice steady as you present it, again as low and deferent as you can get your body.

“Apologies for the delay, my lord.”

Like this, his already impressive height feels towering. Behemoth. It’s been some time since you were in his presence, but longer still since you had his attention. It is just as horrible as you remember. The back of your neck prickles.

Another breathless, terrifying moment as he opens the book. You’ve either guessed correctly, or you’re dead.

Without a word, he turns on his heel and strides away. The door slams behind him, but even then, his presence lingers. Like you aren’t alone despite his absence.

You’re not sure how long it takes, but you eventually peel yourself off the ground, dust yourself off, and return to shelving books. When Kiro comes by later, you’re careful to confirm that it’s him before opening your reckless mouth.

Comfort in paper. Comfort in ink.

You inventory the new manuscripts, soothing yourself by writing down as many details as possible - to later find by any random criteria demanded.

Sukuna returns two days later. This time, you see him enter from your little writing desk where you’ve been diligently working on your… hobby. You stand as hastily as caution permits, trying not to spill ink on your hard work. You shuffle from your station and bow (properly this time) before he’s passed the first shelf.

You stay like that, breathing as slowly as you’re able, until his heavy steps stop far too close for comfort. His shadow swallows you whole, almost a physical thing pressing down between your shoulder blades. You wet your dry lips and wait.

“Bookkeeper, this tome was dissatisfying,” he rumbles. “The maps were of poor quality.”

And how is that your fault? Moreover, what are you meant to do about it?

“I… apologize, my lord,” you offer.

“Did I ask for your empty apologies?” he snarls. Your chest constricts. “Find me a better one.”

A small, hopeful seed of relief blooms in your chest. That, at least, is something you can do.

“Of course, my lord. May I ask… is there a specific map you wish to see?”

“You may not.”

Well, then. “Yes, my lord.”

You shuffle back to the encyclopedias. Your eyes flick over the spines, rifling through your mental catalog. You’ve only got one opportunity to please him. The consequences could mean death - at best.

No pressure.

With your stomach twisted in hard knots, you make your selection. A painstakingly hand-painted series of maps, including entire spreads that unfold from the pages. It’s beautiful, colorful, and accurate from what you understand.

You return to Sukuna.

“I hope this pleases you,” you say with sincerity.

He takes it from you without a word. You don’t dare peek at his expression - not when he’s got a spare set of eyes to monitor your continued deference. As you await judgment, you distract yourself by imagining which pages he’s looking at. You’ve been rather taken by the illustration of Heian-Kyo and it’s waterways.

“This will suffice,” he says at last, and again, sweeps out of the library.

You’re quicker to stand this time, wiping your damp palms on your mo. Well… that was nerve-wracking. You take a long moment to breathe, slowing your heart. Then make a note in the records that Sukuna-sama does not care of Master Riyoshi’s Complete Atlas of the Gods’ Lands.

Three days later, Sukuna departs on another campaign of terror - this time expanding his territory south.

You fill another page of your ongoing “hobby” with gossip whispered around the servants’ quarters and dining tables. The why and how of his departure, conjectures of his plans. Debates of the death toll.

You try to record only what seems like witness accounts, though you’re always meticulous to leave out your sources.

Without Sukuna to reign them in, his usual circle of sycophants are emboldened to play at authority. His favored concubines order about servants and take liberties they wouldn’t otherwise dare. Curses torment and devour humans they’re certain won’t be missed. Still, somehow, it’s not as frightening as the king himself.

You simply keep to small groups and lock yourself in the all-but-forgotten library. Kiro continues to deliver new contributions weekly. You devote an entire shelf to The Tale of Genji. The sanctity of your library is restored.

Sukuna returns to the manor two months later. You hear about the “campaign” from vassals that traveled with him. Fire and blood, devastation rippling out from his every step. Screams, suffering, horrors that make you doubt any gods you grew up worshiping.

So, standard fare for Sukuna’s travels.

You even make a rare appearance in the throne room to observe his victory feast from afar, milling with the other servants. It’s as horrid as always, but there are some stories to be gleaned from the attendees’ idle chatter.

Sukuna himself never contributes to the tales, you notice. Most of the time, he lounges on his throne with his chin on one fist, all four eyes half-lidded. Bored, it would seem to you. He rarely converses, and when he does, it’s usually to scoff at some other curse making grandiose claims of its own feats.

You observe for as long as you dare, then retreat to the library. You work deep into the night, until your vision blurs and your hand cramps. Eventually, you surrender to sleep and leave your notes out on the writing desk to finish drying. You’ll likely need to correct any mistakes made in your fatigue anyway.

Sukuna visits the next day as you’re doing just that.

It’s poor timing for you, disheveled by the trials of transcribing the previous evening and well into today. Ink has stained your hands (and likely your face as well) and your hair is haphazardly pinned with a single (clean) hashi.

Even so, you leave your writings to bow as deeply as ever, mouth glued shut from too little to drink for several hours. You finished your cold tea near midday and it appears the sun is already diving for the horizon.

“What, no useless pleasantries this time?” he sneers.

Gods forbid you’re polite.

“How may I serve you, Sukuna-sama?” you ask.

“Your recommendation was adequate.”

You sense movement above your head, but resist looking - until you feel a not-gentle thunk to the crown of your skull. You blink and carefully tilt your chin up. The atlas is waved impatiently in your face.

“Burn that other one, it does not belong in my collection.”

“As you wish, my lord,” you demure, hiding your dismay as you accept the tome.

Not well enough, it would appear, as you see his brow arch in your peripheral.

“Ho? You disagree with my decision?” he asks.

The sadistic anticipation lacing his voice sets your teeth on edge. Now that’s a test if you’ve ever heard one, and you have no doubt about the consequences if you fail.

“It’s not my place to disagree, Sukuna-sama.”

The mouth on his stomach parts in a grotesque and unkind grin.

“But you do disagree,” he insists.

You press your lips together, searching for a suitable response and finding none. You hug the atlas to your chest. Appeasing mercurial curse kings was not amongst your etiquette lessons as a young noblewoman.

The silence stretches for a beat longer.

“Not going to deny it?” he prods, a touch impatient.

You pick your words carefully. “I wouldn’t insult you by lying.”

And he chuckles. It’s rich, deep, rumbling in that barrel chest like thunder. The sound surprises you so much you nearly look up.

“There is a brain in there after all,” he muses, “fitting for a bookkeeper.”

You’re probably supposed to thank him for that backhanded compliment. You stay quiet instead, wishing he’d just leave.

Comfort in paper.

“Do what you wish with the book, but do not complain of needing more space,” he says.

Oh yes, because a singular sub-par atlas is the space problem. You nod, teeth in your cheek, counting seconds.

“See that you continue to be of use,” he adds.

It takes you a half second too long to realize he expects a response.

“I shall do my best,” you murmur.

He turns and stalks away without another word.

The conclusion of the conversation strikes you wrong. As if you missed a word or two somewhere along the way, and it changed the entire meaning.

You sift through the conversation in your mind. Turn over each syllable, every intonation, trying to discern what you could be missing. But alas, any greater implication (if it exists) is lost to you.

Best not to dwell, you remind yourself. Sukuna remains incomprehensible to you. He is carried by his own whims alone, without rhyme nor reason. You need only concern yourself with avoiding his wrath.

You glance down at the atlas, still clutched to your chest. There’s brownish staining around the bottom edge of the pages. Blood, you realize with slow unease. You haven’t a clue how to remove it, or even if you can. In the end, you put it back in its rightful place and make a note of it in your records.

Uraume has grown on you, with time.

Not to say that the two of you are close, or even proper friends. In fact, they’re even more ineffable than your shared master. But you two have a cordial acquaintanceship that is satisfying in its own way.

You often recommend books for them to peruse in the little free time they allot themselves. In turn, they occasionally bring you sweets from Sukuna’s tributes that he has no interest in. Part of you thinks that they’ve made an unwitting poison-tester of you, but the delicacies are usually worth the small possibility of death. (After all, everyone knows Sukuna is immune to such toxins.)

They are quiet company you don’t mind sharing, on the occasions they visit.

Tonight, you are sharing tea. They’ve come late in the evening - presumably, Sukuna has retired and has no need of them. You don’t ask, and they do not offer the information freely.

They’re reading the newest addition to the poem collection, occasionally commenting to you about the prose or the imagery. You’ve read through it, though only two or three made any deeper impression on you.

Poetry was your weakest writing and reading form to study. An embarrassment for a nobleman’s daughter, sure, but you are no longer that. You’re Ryomen Sukuna’s librarian.

“What are you occupying yourself with this evening?” Uraume asks.

It’s an unusual display of interest, and you try not to look paranoid as you answer.

“Just records,” you sigh. “Perhaps I’m torturing myself with more paperwork than necessary.”

You set your brush aside and draw your wrist in, rubbing your thumb along the tired tendons.

“You are thorough, as one should be serving Sukuna-sama,” they say.

You hum, glancing at the neat lines of reisho drying on the parchment. A story you heard a stable-hand telling a gardener, about Sukuna decimating a larger town during his last travels.

You wonder if he truly did rip a grown man in half with his bare hands. You wonder if it matters, knowing without a doubt that he could.

“Yes, you’re right,” you murmur.

As a teenager, your tutors lectured the importance and the hazard of a historian’s duty. They walk a fine line recording events and decisions faithfully, without displeasing their sponsors. One unflattering turn of phrase or misplaced adjective could incite a prideful lord to replace them with a more complimentary one.

It’s foolish, chronicling Sukuna’s exploits. Dangerous. Your little “hobby” could very well get you killed. Yet, you feel compelled to ink some record of the king of curses from as objective a perspective as you can. (Truly, you don’t need to dramatize the horrors, they are evident in themselves.)

Historians are important. Necessary. Sukuna doesn’t have one - you’ve asked around. So at the very least, you’ve tried to document significant events, if not the day to day matters of the manor.

“Is Sukuna-sama’s collection truly growing so large?” Uraume asks, glancing at the shelves.

All of them have at least a handful of books occupying them, though two-thirds are laden by now. Organized by genre, then by author - and lacking an author, by title. Though there was one manic week that you had everything organized by color.

“It grows all the time,” you answer, “though it helps that only you and Sukuna-sama visit. I don’t spend much time re-shelving.”

A pity that, but you’re not surprised that no one else would risk Sukuna’s wrath by perusing his collection without express permission. And really, who going to weather the peril of asking?

“Speaking of, I’ve finished this one,” Uraume says, tilting their borrowed manuscript towards you. “Quite lovely, thank you for your recommendation.”

You tuck it into your arm with a small smile and bow. “I’m happy you enjoyed my suggestion, Uraume-san. Shall I fetch you another?”

They pick up the tea set, long finished, from the reading table (that no one else ever uses) and shake their head.

“I will turn in.”

“Ah, good night, then.”

You turn away and weave through the stacks to replace the book, grateful to stretch your legs. Perhaps you’ll follow they’re example. It’s growing late and you have sleep to make up for.

Uraume is gone by the time you return to the library’s disused seating area. With a yawn, you snuff the few lanterns left lit, and think even once about the papers left out on your writing desk.

You’re taking inventory of new additions when you’re summoned to the throne room.

It feels like the floor has fallen out from beneath you. You have never, never been summoned to the throne room before. Have only even seen it a handful of times.

A few scant months ago, Sukuna had spoken to you directly once - the day you were assigned your current position. Now you’ve spoken thrice in an unnervingly short span and you’re suddenly demanded in the throne room?

His recent visits to the library must have something to do with it, but you scramble to reason why. If you’d angered him in any of those interactions, you would have been punished on the spot. He doesn’t make a production of discipling servants - he doesn’t even usually do it himself, instead leaving it under Uraume’s purview.

So why?

Being summoned to the throne room bodes nothing good. Sukuna isn’t generous with rewards, and you have certainly done nothing to warrant one.

You stride through the halls in a frantic haze, heart trying to claw up your throat with each step. An attempt to abandon the rest of your body as a lost cause. You swallow it back with sour bile.

There’s a reason you tend to avoid the throne room - and not just because Sukuna (and other curses) frequent it. The towers of bones are the least of the grim designs. Uraume told you once that they stopped replacing the rugs some time ago, the blood is just easier to mop up from a bare floor.

Panic and fear make you foolish; you don’t immediately drop your eyes when you enter. Instead you seek out Sukuna’s hulking form.

He’s reclined in his throne as usual, and he’s… reading something. Or at least one pair of eyes is.

As soon as you notice the lower pair are watching you, your gaze drops like a stone. You’re in a precarious enough position as is, you shouldn’t provoke his wrath any further.

You drop down into a bow for possibly the last time, breaths coming short and fast. And you wait. He knows you’re there; he’ll acknowledge you in his own time.

You’re almost grateful for the extra moment to collect yourself. If nothing else, you won’t die begging and screaming like your father.

“Tell me, what’s your position here?” Sukuna begins at last.

The tone - casual, almost bored - unnerves you. You both know the answer, yet you have no doubt he expects an answer.

“I’m your bookkeeper, Lord Sukuna,” you answer, as steadily as you can.

“I thought so,” he drawls, shifting. “And are you lacking books to keep?”

You blink, confused and even more uneasy for it. “No, my lord.”

“Really?” Paper crinkles, then rips. “Then explain why this garbage is in my library.”

You jolt as something lands a scant breath away from your head. Uncannily, the scroll unrolls directly beneath your face. Your own handwriting greets you.

Oh.

Oh no.

“I…”

It can’t get any worse, so you dare to rise a bit, touching the edge of the parchment like it’s all just a horrible mirage. But it’s real. Horrifically real.

You curl trembling, bloodless fingers into your palm. Struggle for the air to speak, even as words swim through your mind like frantic fish. You grasp for any of them, knowing that what little grace you’ve been given will dwindle quickly if you delay.

“I was trying to keep a record,” you manage finally, “of the king of curses… for historical purposes.”

He snorts. “And what use do I have for a record about myself, hm?”

You carefully don’t point out that nothing is eternal. All things end, including his reign - even if it’s not within this lifetime… or the next. Nor do you think it’s wise to mention that historical accounts aren’t necessarily for the subjects they’re about.

But he hasn’t killed you on the spot. Perhaps he is only going to make an example of you, but you grasp at the gossamer hope that you can survive this transgression. Maybe, if you convince him that there is some merit…

“For details you may wish to… review one day,” you say, carefully avoiding any implication that his memory is less than perfect. “Names, places, dates… even weather. Things that you may find irrelevant in the moment but could be useful later.”

He hums. “You think I don’t pay attention to relevant details?”

“You will live a very long time, Sukuna-sama,” you reply, and leave it at that.

He huffs, but… it doesn’t sound angry. Exasperated, perhaps? You’re sorely tempted to glance at his expression, but paranoia keeps your eyes down. Unwilling to risk angering him now when it seems you might survive this encounter.

“Fiiiine,” he drones at last, “but if you’re going to waste your time on this, you’re going to do it properly.”

Nothing on earth could keep your head down at the moment. You blink up at him, dazed on a mix of relief and confusion.

“Properly?” you repeat.

“That,” he gestures at the torn half of scroll with one lazy arm, “was shit. You didn’t even get half of it right.”

Ah. That’s… fair, though ominous.

“Apologies, my lord. I only heard the stories secondhand…”

“No shit,” he scoffs, rolling one set of eyes. “From now on, if you want to write it all down so bad, you’ll be there to see it for yourself.”

What.

You’ll… what?!

“Might as well fix whatever trash you’ve already written while we’re at it,” he continues.

“Fix” it? Never mind his dismissal of your archival abilities - what does “fix it” mean?

The mean smirk on his face is not reassuring. A fresh pit of dread opens in your stomach.

“Of course, my lord,” you say, voice too high.

There’s a long pause, thick enough to smother you. Then he audibly scoffs.

“We start tomorrow - your hands are shaking too much to write legibly.”

Finally, reprieve. You scramble to your feet, still bent at the waist. “Yes, my lord.”

For the first time in your life, paper and ink don’t promise comfort like they once did.

When you return to the library, you squat down in the farthest corner from the door and allow yourself to hyperventilate.

The first day is a new kind of suffering that you’re sure Sukuna invented just for you. He must be proud.

Uraume fetches you from the servant’s quarters, sleep-rumpled from tossing and turning all night, and not at all prepared to face Ryomen Sukuna at such an early hour.

You’re escorted to the throne room and bow low as usual. Sukuna waves dismissively to the floor below him, where writing materials have already been set out. You hastily fold yourself behind the parchment, mix the ink, and select a brush to begin transcribing.

You’ve never been present for a typical day in Sukuna’s court, but you’re far too nervous to appreciate the novelty. Sukuna is right behind you, practically peering over your shoulder. And while you assure yourself that he’s already forgotten your presence (insignificant and uninteresting as it is) the back of your neck prickles constantly.

You’re hyper-aware of how you’re sitting. How you’re holding the brush. Each stroke of your tidy reisho characters. Even your breathing and minute shifts to relieve aches in your knees and hips feel like a liberty too bold to take.

You expect to be killed or maimed every hour. Still, you dutifully record the curses and curse users milling in the throne room, murmuring amongst themselves. Most stay to the edges and corners, though a brave handful approach Sukuna with tributes or offers of entertainment.

“Entertainment,” as it turns out, is usually torture and/or execution. You keep your eyes on your parchment as often as you can, and try to keep those notes as short and precise as possible.

There’s feasting (with dishes that look uncomfortably human) and news from the edges of Sukuna’s ever-growing territory. Sukuna himself speaks very little, and participates in the violence fleetingly.

You’d be more surprised if your anxious mind had any room for it.

The day ends when Sukuna stands, one pair of arms stretching while the other settles on his hips. All those in the throne room fall silent and freeze.

“Get lost,” he says plainly.

And the throne room is suddenly very empty - save for you, Uraume, and Sukuna himself.

“Alright, let’s see it,” he says.

You blink, realize he’s speaking to you, and quickly set your brush aside. One of his many hands is already extended, so you hand him the stack of notes gathered by your thigh. While he begins perusing them, you free the latest from beneath a stone weight and blow gently on the half-dried ink.

“Huh,” he muses, rifling through the parchment, “you’re not half-bad at this.”

Was that… a compliment? Has the stress finally made you delirious? Perhaps forgoing meals all day has you hearing things.

“I’m… glad you’re pleased, my lord,” you say anyway.

He grunts, attention seemingly caught on one of the pages - though you have no idea what could have drawn his fickle attention. He doesn’t seem irritated, at least. Granted, your eyes are usually on the floor, so you wouldn’t know… what that… looks… like…

Your eyes lock with the bottom pair of Sukuna’s, watching you askance and half-lidded, just as you realize your error.

Trying to recover, but already knowing it’s too late, you drop your gaze to your lap. Thankfully, he indeed doesn’t seem irritated enough to take offense this time.

“You’re dismissed for the evening,” he drawls handing the papers back, “unless you need records of which concubine I’m fucking and what positions I’m fucking them in.”

His tongue curls around the words like poison and honey, mocking yet lurid. It’s not nearly the most provocative thing you’ve ever heard, but somehow, the crudeness catches you off guard. Your face radiates heat. Your hand spasms around the fresh records and you practically leap to your feet, bowing quickly at the waist.

“No, my lord, that’s not typically part of court records,” you say, far too quickly to be polite. “Have a pleasant evening, my lord.”

And you flee from the throne room - only realizing once you’re safe in the library that you are lucky to have made it there at all.

Your mother had another saying - or more accurately, an addendum to her mantra. She’d say it when the back of your hand stung and bruised from tutor corrections via thin bamboo shoots. Or when your father’s dissatisfaction became too explosive. Or when you’d stare out the window too long, tracking the birds with visible envy.

Comfort in paper, comfort in ink, she’d begin, smoothing your hair back from your face, all the better to read. With these, all things are bearable.

In her defense, you once thought, her advice was not designed with curses, with Sukuna, in mind. She could not have known that her only daughter, a scant two years after the fever took her, would bear witness to horrors that could make gods shudder. Her wisdom could not have accounted for flaying skin, cannibalism, and bone gardens.

What solace could plant pulp and pine soot provide, in the face (two faces) of embodied cruelty?

Yet, as the days progress, you find more than meager comfort in your new task. With each stroke of the brush, your hands steady and your spine uncoils. Every completed page dulls the sharp blade of Sukuna’s doubled gaze scraping between your shoulders. Your lungs learn to function with shallower breaths while Sukuna reviews the day’s records. The death knells ringing through your skull fade to echoes with every dismissal to the library.

It takes a few days, but you optimize your record-keeping. You begin discerning the details of importance, develop a shorthand to keep pace with spoken word. Sukuna offers no praise, of course, but you keep all your limbs, blood, and organs, which is approval enough.

It becomes bearable, your position near Sukuna’s throne, keeping his records. Even being spoken to by him (and by extension, speaking to him) become commonplace.

“Keeper, how long has it been since this worm last squirmed before me?” He sounds bored. Worse, he sounds annoyed about being bored.

Cautiously, you tilt your face up from your work. The curse trembling at Sukuna’s feet is indeed uncannily worm-like, but also familiar. And, for now, in one piece.

(That is one thing you’ve yet to be desensitized to - the violence. You’ve become adept at knowing when and for how long to keep your eyes on your documents. Though, of course, you can’t stay completely blind to it all. You doubt you’ll ever adjust to it, but a small part of you, shamefully, hopes there comes a day that you do.)

“Ten days, my lord,” you answer, clear and concise.

“And what did it want last time?”

From the corner of your eye, one of Sukuna’s dark nails tap-tap-taps the orbital bone of some long-dead creature.

“Permission to hunt in… Mizushima,” you reply. The clarification of just what he was hunting goes unsaid.

Sukuna makes a derisive noise behind you. “And now you’re back, crying to me because you can’t kill a few measly humans?” he sneers.

“Th-the sorcerers, Sukuna-sama…”

You make a small note about the sorcerers (this is the third account of them being an issue in Mizushima this month) and pause to take a sip of tea. Uraume, indispensable pillar of the estate that they are, has begun to deliver you food and drink through the long days in court.

“Did I stutter?” Sukuna asks, dangerously bland. “Keeper, did I stutter?”

Oh, dear.

You set your cup primly aside. “You did not, my lord.”

Quietly, you slip the fan from your sleeve and unfold it.

“If you can’t even manage to slaughter a couple humans, you no longer have permission to exist.”

You strategically place the fan in front of your paper just as Sukuna makes a sharp gesture with two fingers of one hand. Slimy green remains innards spatter the floor and the front of your fan, thankfully protecting the day’s records. Some, unfortunately, also gets on your hand - but that’s what your handkerchief is for.

“I’m sick of this,” Sukuna announces. “All of you get out and don’t return until you have something of interest.”

You finish the last of your tea while the various courtiers hastily vacate. Uraume silently appears at your side to collect the empty cup and saucer. You nod at them politely, then begin organizing your stack of dried documents to take with you.

“And where do you think you’re going, keeper?”

You pause, pages half-shuffled into a neat pile. His expression is still mild, which you’ve come to find usually precedes something that makes you nauseous. As always, you pick your words carefully, but you’re getting better at it.

“Usually, you no longer have use for me once you’ve adjourned court. Can I be of further service, my lord?”

“I’ve got some time to kill,” he drawls with a disconcerting flash of sharp teeth, “we will begin fixing that trash you wrote before.”

“Ah,” you say, unbalanced by the change in routine. “I would need to fetch them—”

He holds out one hand lazily. “Uraume.”

They place a manuscript into his palm - your previous attempt at record-keeping, you realize. All compounded into one document. A sliver of embarrassment flares in your cheeks. The thing is only slightly thicker than notes you would take in a single day.

(Never mind that Uraume had to have gone through your things to get them all. You’ve given up on silly notions like privacy or autonomy.)

“Of course, my lord.”

You pull a fresh sheet of parchment and wet your brush. “Are we beginning with the first entry…?”

He skims over it and makes a face. “Boring.”

Well, yes. It’s not supposed to be an epic, you don’t say. It’s just supposed to be a factual account, dry as the paper it’s written on. You keep your mouth shut as Sukuna leafs through other entries, then stops about a third of the way through, brows arching.

“We’ll start with this one,” he says.

“What’s the date?” you ask, and jot it down in the top corner. “Okay, whenever you’re ready, my lord.”

It was one of the bloodier days in the court - a foolhardy band of sorcerers that had tried to storm into the estate all on their own. It had been audacious (and stupid) enough to trickle down even to the servants. You’d gotten various contradictory accounts so had only been able to record the vaguest and most common bits of the stories.

Sukuna tells you about the rumors that had led up to the confrontation, and how he’d allowed them easy passage through his territory. Evidently, he just wanted to see if they had “the stones” to actually face him. He gleefully tells you that half of them had pissed themselves when they finally made it to the throne room and to Sukuna waiting for them.

He speaks smoothly, unhurried, cadence ebbing and flowing with amusement and annoyance in turns. Often adds dry commentary that you genuinely find humorous, much to your shock.

At one point, needing clarification but wary of interrupting, you raise a finger to catch his attention. He glances at you over the top of previous faulty account with an arched brow.

“Hm?”

“Was it just the five sorcerers, or did they have a…” you cast about for the word, “entourage… or something?”

“A war party?” he supplies.

You nod, wiping excess ink from your fingers on a rag.

“Oh, yeah. Dumb as hell, dragging a bunch of human servants along with them,” he says, rolling his eyes. “I left those maggots to the others. They’re not even worth eating, usually.”

By “others” you realize he means curses and curse users that hover around like flies. (You discard the offhand comment about his unusual diet with barely a flinch.)

“I see,” you hum, adding it to the record, “thank you, my lord. If you’d like to continue…”

The rest of the story is every bit as gruesome and bloody as you’re expecting. It’s somehow easier to hear, knowing that it’s inevitable. Sukuna is especially detailed during this part, but much like every day in court, you keep your eyes on your work and just write what is said.

Following the story’s conclusion, you offer him the corrected version for inspection, but he just waves you off.

“Don’t you have books to organize or something?” he says. “I don’t need to read every little thing.”

And while he sounds aggravated, you get an odd… warmth about it. Like he’s already assured of your work’s quality. You try not to brighten too noticeably.

Appreciation from anyone, even Sukuna (especially Sukuna) is always gratifying.

“Yes, my lord.” You bow, collecting your materials. “Good evening.”

Over the next several days, a new pattern establishes itself.

You always wake early, hours before Sukuna is willing to entertain anyone. You sweep and dust, catalog the books, and prep your writing materials. Uraume always fetches you when Sukuna finally deigns to hold court.

Curses and curse users try vainly to curry Sukuna’s favor by whatever means they can think. Sometimes he grants boons, more often he makes a mess of the floors. When he grows bored, he dismisses everyone and the retellings of your initial, faulty records continues - though it’s never done in the court room again.

He gets sick of sitting there, apparently, so you follow him to whatever pastime he’s engaging in. Sometimes lounging by the koi pond, watching the fish. Other times, sitting on the engawa near the library while he smokes hookah and drinks sake. Once in the archery field, as he looses arrow after fiery arrow at (initially) living targets.

The first time you have a session in the library, his face twists with distaste. The space is clean, of course, but barren of anything but basic furniture and books. He becomes restless quickly and ends up perusing his own collection while recounting a battle near Heian-kyo. Apparently, recalling victory isn’t enough stimulation for him.

(The next morning, you stop short in the doorway, tea halfway to your mouth. The once bare floors are now carpeted with lush, vibrant rugs. Atop them, lavish couches and lounges have been arranged around polished tables. There are fine silk-shaded lanterns, tapestries on the walls and hanging from the ceiling. It’s beautiful, the finest library you’ve ever seen, and you fall asleep on one of the cushioned settees that evening.)

Whenever Sukuna is done speaking, you return to the library. Always the library. You complete any lingering tasks from the morning and clean your brushes, hanging them to dry for overnight.

You never quite forget the danger of Sukuna. It’s impossible when his cruelty and power are on display daily. Yet… a part of you settles. As if, at some point, you passed some milestone that made you an unlikely target for Sukuna’s casual wrath. Perhaps sunken-cost of his valuable time, perhaps you’re just more convenient alive than dead.

Eventually, a small writing desk becomes a fixture in the throne room. Your usual spot just to the side and a little in front of Sukuna. Your joints are so grateful for a proper seat that you make a point of thanking Sukuna when court adjourns - though you can’t quite force yourself to look at him as you do.

The next morning, a new set of brushes is waiting for you. Beautiful, and finely made. The handles are lacquered, carved with rolling cloud designs, and the material… you suspect it’s made of bone. Even so, it’s a gift you know better than to decline. (And truly, it is so nice… you tell yourself it once belonged to an animal, and pretend to believe it.)

Eventually, you deplete your stock of ink sticks and inform Uraume, hoping they’ll be able to procure more. Surely you’re not the only one using ink in the estate.

“What would be needed to make more?” they ask. “Buying so much of it may not be economical.”

Quietly, you despair at the prospect of making your own ink sticks. The sheer amount of time it will take, never mind the skill required for it to be usable, is enough to make you teary.

“Well, typical ink is usually just pine soot, nikawa, and maybe something to make it smell more pleasant,” you muse. “The more expensive kinds just have pigment mixed in.”

They hum. “I will procure more ink.”

You blink. Have they already discarded the idea of hand-making it? Gods, you hope so.

“Thank you, Uraume-san.”

The following day, a stick pressed into the shape of a dragon is waiting at your desk. When you activate it and begin writing, the ink is deeply red. You marvel at the color, hand hovering over the page.

The back of your neck prickles, that unmistakable feeling of Sukuna’s eyes on you. As usual, you keep your eyes down.

You shouldn’t waste it, but you find yourself adding a little flourish to your characters that day, just to see the lovely flow of crimson.

You thank Uraume later for finding such nice ink on such short notice, you feel all four of his eyes on you again. But when you turn, he just motions for you to follow him to wherever you’ll be transcribing his next story.

With winter approaching, evening creeps up to smother the sun faster than usual. It requires more light - which usually involves a servant following the two of you around with a lantern on a pole at a respectful distance. However, Sukuna catches you trying to warm your half-frozen fingers one too many times and tsks something about “shivery handwriting.”

The two of you being working in the library more often. Despite the new decorations (presumably for his benefit) Sukuna still wanders the shelves, sharp eyes catching on every new volume that’s been added since his last visit. During a pause (he’s telling you about something decidedly less interesting for him, so he keeps trailing off, trying to remember details you usually ask for) you sense him approach from behind you.

His shadow blots out the candlelight before he even stops, much closer than necessary. Not so long ago, that would have frozen you into a trembling, hyperventilating statue. Now, accustomed as you are to having him at your back, and knowing he’s not as prone to random violence as you once thought, you have the capacity to notice two things.

The first is that he radiates heat. You’ve seen him produce fire from nothing - something about his technique, you think? - at the archery range. You didn’t consider that it would manifest in other ways. It’s almost nice, honestly, with the chill in the library.

The other thing is that he smells… good. Disturbingly good. Most curses that you’ve been unfortunately close to stink of decay, refuse, old blood. But Sukuna smells like incense, like woodsmoke and cloves. Something of earth, something a little divine - unexpected, yet fitting.

Clearing your throat a little, you turn your head and come face to… mouth with… well with the mouth on his stomach. That, too, you’ve become familiar with - though not usually so close. You tilt your chin up to peer at Sukuna. He holds a book over your face, brows arched.

“We really do have a lot of these,” he says.

You glance at the cover again and see the title. The Tale of Genji.

“So many,” you blurt with feeling. “You’d think it’s the only novel ever written!”

He snorts, then casts the book a skeptical look. “Is it even any good?”

He’s asking your opinion? Shock almost robs you of an answer.

Maybe it’s the crippling loneliness of your position in an estate like Sukuna’s, but you’re eager for some small connection. A chance to speak slightly more freely than normal.

“It’s not bad by any means, but I think it’s popularity is a little inflated,” you muse. “I suppose it depends on your taste.”

He grunts, one set of eyes considering the novel at length. The other pair slide to you.

“You’re getting ink on your hand again.”

“Oh!”

While you clean, Sukuna drops himself onto one of the couches. Privately, and safely away from all four of his shrewd eyes, you marvel at the sheer breadth of him. Sitting as he so often is, and as much as you keep your eyes on your writing, you sometimes forget how much he outmeasures any human. By every dimension.

A couch that nearly swallows you seems to only just fit him comfortably.

“Are you done yet?” he calls.

“Ah, yes, my lord,” you reply. You can wash your brushes later. “How may I be of service?”

He tosses you the book. There’s no stopping the dismayed yelp that squeaks out as you fumble a bit, hugging it to your chest. He doesn’t look at you, but the mouth on his stomach snickers.

“Read it,” he commands, stretching out. “Let’s see if it’s actually any good.”

It takes you a beat too long to realize that he means you’re to read it out loud. You balk for a brief moment, confused and nervous. But it wasn’t a request.

Overly aware of yourself in a way you haven’t been since you were a teenager, you perch on one of the armchairs. It’s a thick manuscript, you don’t expect Sukuna to be entertained for more than an hour - and that’s a generous estimate.

You clear your throat one last time, crack it open, and begin.

No matter the amount of time you spend with Sukuna, you’re always reminded of his unpredictability.

The reading sessions are folded into the new routine. Your days are now library, court, transcribing Sukuna’s stories, and then finally reading Sukuna stories. Or just the one, so far. It’s a very long book, after all.

Not once has he appeared bored, despite your prediction that he’d lose interest quickly. Yet, whenever he props his chin on one of his hands, his eyes are always clear. Engaged. He even comments sometimes, or makes faces. He’s actually listening.

You’d be self-conscious, if you had the energy.

This addition to your schedule is not a small one - you read until Sukuna is satisfied, usually well into the evening, when the lanterns begin to dim. You suppose fatigue doesn’t drag at him like it does a human. Like it does you.

Your work doesn’t end when he’s retired to his chambers. You still have to finish any tasks left from the morning - inventory, cleaning, storing away the day’s records. Most recently, checking and replacing any books.

Apparently a few members of his harem, wondering what has their king so preoccupied, have discovered the library. And with his blessing (more accurately, the shooing motion he makes over the back of the couch) they’ve begun perusing with relish. Most of them come from noble families, as spoils of war or appeasement to Sukuna, and seem eager for a bit of familiarity from their previous lives.

Truly, you don’t mind. They are respectful of the books and treat them with care. Often, they even leave their picks out for you to replace, rather than try to do it themselves and disrupt your organization system.

But it is another task you must account for.

Uraume, intuitive as they are, has been providing a steady stream of strong black tea - which you find keeps you more alert than matcha.

Alas, the benefits of tea only extend so far.

“Keeper.”

“Ah, yes, Sukuna-sama?” you ask, blinking yourself from the hypnotic daze his deep voice lulled you into.

You’re in the library again, because it’s been raining all day. The thrush of water on the roof and against the windows is an unfortunately effective accomplice challenging your ability to stay awake.

“Am I boring you?” he asks, audibly displeased.

You wince and rub at your eyes with your free hand. The characters are starting to blur, which does not bode well for reading later. “No, my lord, I’m sorry.”

You startle as he appears in front of you from seemingly nowhere - he’d just been wandering the shelves, as he usually does.

All four of his crimson eyes pin you in place. Looking at you. You’re startled to recognize the familiarity of its intensity; usually you’re facing the other way.

“You look bad.”

Perhaps it’s the fatigue. Perhaps it’s the tone. Perhaps it’s that he says it at all.

But you laugh. And he arches his brows, apparently nonplussed. And you laugh a little more.

“Apologies, my lord,” you say, struggling to contain your giggles. “I just… I must look unfortunate if you’ve noticed enough to say so.”

He snorts, crosses one set of arms. “I am not oblivious.”

“No, my lord, you are not,” you agree. You’ve just always operated under the assumption you’re beneath his notice. Even if he observed your exhaustion, you wouldn’t have ever expected him to acknowledge it aloud.

“Explain.”

You hesitate. There’s an answer, but you know better than to make it sound like you’re complaining. Buying time, you busy yourself with setting your brush very carefully to the side - you’re likely to ruin the entire record at the pace you’re going.

“I’m staying… that is to say, you…” You fumble for the correct combination of words, but your mind provides nothing but the same droning as the rain outside. “There’s just…”

You press your mouth together with a small, frustrated sigh at yourself. Each failed syllable has tightened your nails into your palm, anxious crescents carving into clammy skin.

“Keeper.”

You swallow back another incoherent jumble of words. “Sorry, Sukuna-sama.”

He clicks his tongue. One of his hands (from the pair that’s not crossed) run through his hair, as if he’s frustrated with you as well. There’s a beat of silence. You don’t expect death anymore, but you’ve strained so often to please him that you’re not longer sure what will happen if you don’t.

“Speak plainly for once,” he commands. Your eyes flick nervously at his expression. His brows are smooth, and the top set of eyes are cast elsewhere, disinterested. But the bottom set are still trained on you, slightly narrowed. “I have no patience for you to be clever this evening.”

Clever…? What does that even mean?

Seeing the mouth on his stomach tightening, you tuck the thought away. Sukuna has given you an order and there’s really no other option but to obey.

“I’m so fucking tired,” you blurt.

All four eyes snap to your face, his brows jumping nearly to his hairline. You think his eyes might even widen a little - or maybe that’s just a trick of the light and your fuzzy vision. Then he barks a laugh, deep and booming.

Unlike the sadistic cackle of soon-to-be-dead subjects, or the dangerous chuckle of incoming retribution, this sounds genuine. (It’s rare, but you’ve heard it in response to Uraume’s dry comments, or the couple times you’ve asked incredulous questions about his stories.)

“Is that so?” he asks.

You nod and groan softly, rubbing at your eyes again. Composure has abandoned you, like the admission has spent the last of your endurance. You slump.

“Yes,” you sigh. “I’ve been staying up late to finish work in the library.”

He grunts. “Let me see today’s records.”

Wordlessly, you pluck them from the top of the stack and hand them over. Sukuna inspects them more closely than ever before. Two hands hold the pages, one rests on his hip, the other settles on his chin contemplatively.

“You wrote crooked,” he announces. “And you used ‘spicy’ instead of ‘lucky’.”

Despair wells in your soul. “I’ll rewrite them.”

He waves you off and steps closer to set them on the stack himself. This close, the scent of him washes over you, warm and (you’d be more surprised if you weren’t so weary) pleasantly familiar.

“You have proved yourself capable as my historian and my bookkeeper,” he says, “but my collection has grown too impressive to be attended to by one human. Your priority is at my side, not scurrying amongst dead trees.”

Not sure where’s he’s going with this, and mildly baffled by the “scurrying” part, you make a little noise of agreement.

“Tomorrow, you will train a substitute to operate in your absence while you are transcribing.”

Whatever you were expecting, it’s not that. Part of you fears that you have worn out your usefulness - that you are teaching a replacement, that you’ll be killed or (and this is somehow much worse) demoted.

“Yes, my lord,” you mumble, eyes dropping to your lap.

There’s a half-beat of silence. He grunts again, as if aggravated. Perhaps you weren’t appropriately grateful…?

“If you find that one assistant is not enough, inform Uraume, and they will recruit more. I won’t have my library falling into disarray when I went through the trouble of making it look halfway decent.”

Assistant.

Oh.

Relief and appreciation make you lightheaded. “Of course, Sukuna-sama,” you breathe, “thank you.”

He clicks his tongue and, voice stern, commands, “Clean up and go to bed immediately. I will only spare you a single day. Make use of it.”

“I will, my lord.”

You only realize once he’s gone that the evening’s story is unfinished. Well… it will keep. It will have to; he told you to clean up and go to bed. And you have no doubt that he will somehow know if you don’t.

Besides, your bed is singing a siren song you can no longer resist.

(Late morning the following day, and eating a full meal for once, you hear that Sukuna is in a foul mood. The throne room floors are already bathed in blood, curse and human alike. The estate shakes so badly at one point that it knocks a haphazard stack of manuscripts to the floor.

Sukuna appears just as you’ve finished training your new assistant, a nervous young man named Moriyoshi, at the time you’d normally begin reading Genji. He seems composed, but you see agitation in the line of his jaw and the set of his broad shoulders. When you offer to read to him, he turns and walks away without a word - but not without eying the desk between you and Moriyoshi.)

A week passes, and Moriyoshi grows increasingly frazzled each day. On the eighth morning, he approaches you as you’re gathering your writing materials. His hands are pressed together as if in prayer.

“Please, Shikako-san, it’s too much!” he murmurs, eyes flicking nervously at the doors. “I don’t know how you did it, but I can’t keep up!”

You blink. Is it really so much? But, well, it’s probably more difficult to learn the system than it is to design it, as you did. And you’ve been excruciatingly detailed with the records.

“I’ll speak to Uraume-san. Prioritize the catalog for today and I’ll come to help this evening.”

He looks near tears with relief. “Thank you, Shikako-san!”

Shikako-san?

He’s fleeing into the shelves before you can ask about the new title. Suppose calling you “historian” is apt enough, though. You brush it off and continue with your day.

You approach Uraume with Moriyoshi’s request for further help that same evening, after Sukuna’s excused you.

“Sukuna-sama will not be pleased,” they sigh, “you’ll need to train this one as well.”

“And help them catch up with whatever’s fallen behind,” you agree. A headache is building; you massage your thumbs against your temples. “My work won’t suffer this time. It’ll just be one more day.”

They give you this look. Inscrutable as they are, you have no hope of deciphering what it’s meant to convey, if anything. But you’re left with the distinct impression that you’ve exasperated them, somehow.

You tentatively thank them for their patience when they bring you a cup of tea, but they just give you that look again and sweep out of the library.

By next morning, you have three new assistants. Kiro is among them, scratching sheepishly at the back of his head as he admits he always liked delivering books to the library. Enough so that he’s apparently been reprimanded for spending too long with you before, asking questions about how you organize and handle the additions he’d brought.

“He’s more use there than procrastinating tributes to the concubines,” Uraume explain when you ask about it later. “Make good use of him.”

You hum your agreement and politely pass Sukuna one of your handkerchiefs for the goblet he just cracked.

(During a break from training your assistants, you overhear one of the servants whispering that Sukuna is planning another campaign. You resolve to ask him about it that evening, which you’ve insisted could be spent catching up with the day’s record.

He’s not planning another campaign.

He is, however, going to annihilate - and that is the word he uses - a band of sorcerers making noise in the south.)

Uruame rouses you before the sun has risen. Sukuna likes to leave early and the travel should only be two days with good weather, they say. You have no idea what they’re talking about, but stumble into your clothes and out to the stables anyway.

Apparently, you’re accompanying Sukuna to slaughter the unlucky souls that have drawn his attention. You should have known this would come eventually. In a vague sense, you did. You’ve transcribed several accounts of previous battles already - it just seemed like such a distant concept that the reality of actually going startles you.

Still, you go.

Travel for violence, as it turns out, is almost identical to travel for any other reason. In a word, boring. There wouldn’t be much to record even if you could. Mostly, you sit in the carriage with Sukuna and Uraume, reading until the road gets bumpy enough to make you nauseous.

Every so often, you look out the windows, taking in the landscape - scarred from the memory of Sukuna’s rampages. You pass settlements, none with a population that could exceed a few hundred, but many solitary curses. You try to drudge up any particular feeling about the evidence of his devastation - but all you can muster is melancholy at the loss of natural beauty.

In the evening, you ask Sukuna how he usually handles rebellions and upstarts, which evolves into a conversation about curse users, jujutsu sorcerers, and cursed techniques. He’s more talkative than usual, and your fingers itch to write it all down - but it’s long gone dark and you don’t want to get paper too close to the fire.

In the absence of your usual diversions, you’re left to just watch him. The constant shifts in his faces, the gestures he makes, the pitch and lilt of his voice. Moreover, you notice a lingering tension in the posture of his spine and the slight tick of his lower right hand. It’s not the aggravation you’ve come to implicitly recognize.

It’s… anticipation, you realize.

He spills blood daily but a proper battle is a rare novelty for him. Surely it won’t provide much challenge, but it must be better than nothing.

And indeed, he does seem to get genuine enjoyment from the fight.

A band of maybe thirty individuals with varying levels of strength, according to Uraume. Sukuna tears through them, mouth split wide with maniacal delight. In the air one moment, crashing through trees the next, then crushing them into the earth.

It’s brutal, and drawn out. Blood is spraying, limbs are strewn about like plucked petals. The crunch of bones and cartilage echoes in the air. Part of you wants to look away, to be sympathetic to the terrible suffering of these other human beings.

Yet you can’t take your eyes off Sukuna. The fluidity of his movements, casual and effortless, but deliberate and skillful, even to your untrained eye. You didn’t understand what “controlling the battlefield” meant in historical documents until now. It’s… impressive.

“Sukuna-sama is enjoying himself,” Uraume observes next to you. “He seems to be utilizing many of his abilities.”

You should not admire him. Especially not for this… though you’re not certain admiration is the correct word, either.

Still, marveling at what is essentially the torture of others…

You’ve been dragged over many of your moral lines, but this one you seem to wander across on your own, too busy staring at the king of curses.

When it’s over, he’s so blood-soaked that half his tattoos are obscured. Both mouths grin madly, lips and teeth stained with meat. He sighs - the sigh of a satisfying meal - and runs a wet hand through the peach fields of his hair. There’s a beat of silence, as if the world needs a moment to recover.

Then Uraume approaches him with a damp towel, fresh garments folded over one arm.

But you. You’re still rooted to the spot, caught in the crimson glow of his wild eyes. Your heart stutters, somehow startled, though you haven’t once looked away. Even from this distance, you can see his pupils blown wide.

Fear, cold and sharp, cracks through you for the first time in a long while. The old and now unfamiliar terror that he could pounce on you at any moment. You swallow past a dry throat and drop your eyes, falling back on old habits.

“There a river nearby?” You hear him ask. Your stomach flips at the smoke coming from the heat in his voice. “This won’t be enough. I think there’s bits of brain stuck to me.”

“There is,” Uraume answers, professional as always.

When you peek up, his gaze has dropped to them and he’s arching an eyebrow. “Which one?”

“Both.”

He snorts, but takes the cloth anyway, body language softening. You take a deep, steadying breath.

Your notes. You need to write this all down. Well… maybe not all of it. But you need to record everything; that’s what you’re here for, after all.

Comfort...

(For once, you’re not sure what you’re comforting yourself from.)

Your new assistants are waiting for your return, lined up at the entrance to the library. They welcome you back with nervous smiles and awkward bows, apparently nervous for your evaluation of their performance in your absence.

A thorough investigation reveals that they’ve done quite admirably. All documents are back where they belong, the catalog is up-to-date, and every surface is spotless. You thoroughly compliment their efforts, with only a gentle note about adding more details to a few entries, to keep track of the books’ wear over time.

“Ah, there was one other thing, Shikako-san,” Moriyoshi adds as you’re filing the travel records away.

“Hm?” you ask.

You glance up when he doesn’t immediately continue. He’s wringing his ink-stained hands, picking at a hangnail.

“Lady Katsumi has been commandeering Kiro-kun,” he says.

You pause. “What? Why?”

“She… she says that as Sukuna-sama’s favored companion, a history should be taken of her as well,” he explains.

Well… yes, you suppose so. Your father (and grandfather) had secondary wives with their own scribes, and they weren’t the only ones you’re aware of. It’s standard in most noble houses, even expected.

It didn’t occur to you until now because, well, you didn’t think Sukuna has a favored companion. He has concubines yes, but they don’t enjoy the same luxury that most others of their station do from what you’ve heard. You, certainly, were never envious of their position at the estate.

“I can ask Uraume-san for a couple more assistants, but Sukuna-sama will have final say. He’s been cross about all the help we need, but at least one or two other women likely need records too.”

Moriyoshi nods, seemingly content that you’ll handle it, and turns.

“Oh, one other thing, Shikako-san.”

You grimace. “Yes?”

“Genji-san has conquered his entire shelf.”

“Dammit.”

You bring it up before court begins the next day, mixing the ink to your preferred opacity. (The lovely red color has become standard and you can’t say you mind, even though it now conjures images of Sukuna destroying that sorcerer camp.)

“If there are servants to spare that can write, the library could use them.”

From the corner of your eye, Sukuna’s expression shifts, mercurial. “Are the ones you have that incompetent, or are your powers of book-keeping truly so magical?”

You can’t hide your frown - not at the caustic mockery in his voice, but at the slight against your assistants.

“Well, not for the library specifically,” you explain, “but some of your concubines are supposed to have their own records, my lord.”

He rolls all four of his eyes, expression turning sour. (It’s better than angry.) “Is that so?”

You tuck your hair back, casting about for the hashi you usually use to keep it out of your face. Alas, it appears to have been lost during travel. Perhaps you have a bit of twine in your pockets?

“The more favored ones, at least,” you muse. Wordlessly, Uraume offers you a simple wooden comb. You take it with a grateful smile. “But my assistants will fall behind if Lady Katsumi borrows Kiro-san again.”

Sukuna tsks. “I don’t favor any of them; that would be like preferring one spoon over another.”

Crude, but not surprising. (He once referred to children as a “snack between meals,” after all.) You huff softly, too focused on pinning your hair to shake your head.

“Ugh, fine, if it keeps them quiet,” he grumbles. “Uraume will see to it.”

They bow crisply, “As you wish, Sukuna-sama.”

“Thank you for your generosity, Sukuna-sama,” you add. There’s definitely not a needling note in your polite tone. (And he definitely doesn’t let it slide with just a flash of his big, pearly teeth.)

A comb, made of familiar white material and a red inlay carved into handle, greets you on your writing desk after lunch.

Three scribes are added to your (regrettably) growing staff. You send them off to the concubines’ wing of the estate with a small but sincere prayer for their fortitude.

It’s not all of them, really. You’ve come to realize that most of Sukuna’s harem are quite pleasant. Beautiful, graceful, and appreciative of the library, they visit often to borrow books or enjoy them on the couches. Like every other human in the estate, they just want to go about their lives safely.

Lady Katsumi, however, is one of the few that are categorically unpleasant. And the books always smell like strong perfume when she returns them.

“Do you think they’ll be alright?” Kiro asks, brow furrowed with worry.

“If they’re not, I’m sure Sukuna-sama won’t mind if they go back to their previous roles.”

As long as he’s not bothered about it, he couldn’t care less.

“I’m glad I’m a librarian,” Kiro adds.

You hum. “Me too.”

All four of your assistants cast you strange glances, but you don’t have time to question them about it - Sukuna’s holding a banquet this evening and you’re required to attend. You really only stopped in for more paper and a fresh brush. If nothing else, maybe you can practice your disused painting skills instead of following conversations Sukuna isn’t likely to participate in.

A handful of weeks pass. You finally finish reading The Tale of Genji.

It’s a bit later than usual into the evening, both of you eager to finish that last stretch of the story. Sukuna’s lounging with his arms spread across the back of his usual settee, one leg stretched out across the divide between you two. He finished his sake about an hour ago - you’re still sipping at the second cup he poured you.

“Well, my lord?” you ask, glancing up. Sukuna’s eyes are already on you. (As they so often seem to be these days.) “Did it live up to your expectations?”

He hums as he considers the question, cracking his neck.

“Not bad, but definitely not worth the entire bookcase you’ve dedicated to it.”

“Sukuna-sama,” you groan, “it’s not my fault you keep receiving them. I am but a humble keeper of your collection.”

He smirks. “My collection could stand to thin.”

“Perhaps you should threaten to decapitate the next person to bring you a copy,” you muse through a yawn.

It’s only when you see how his eyes light up with wicked delight that you realize what you’ve said. Gods, what’s happened to you?!

“And people say I’m cruel,” he purrs. “You’re bloodthirsty, huh?”

You click your tongue, flustered, and stand to set the book on Moriyoshi’s desk - it’ll be a good opportunity for him to practice catalog updates. “I’m not.”

“Have you gotten a taste for it after all this time?” he continues, rising. Stretching those thick tattooed arms. “Is that it, Shika?”

You glance over your shoulder to frown at him, nose scrunching. He’s closer than you expect. (As he so often seems to be… these days…)

“Please don’t mock me, my lord,” you huff. “I’ve given you no reason to.”

“I don’t need a reason to do as I please with you,” he intones.

It strikes you odd. Different. Something in his voice, maybe, or the way he tilts his head towards you. Your stomach flutters, low and deep in your gut.

“And it pleases you to mock me, Sukuna-sama?”

His mouth curves crooked and devilish as he looms over you. “You make it so enticing when you pout like that.”

You can’t hold his eyes anymore; your knees are threatening to buckle. You don’t know what that means, what to do with the rapid tapping of your heart. Breathing feels like a manual process.

Casting about for a distraction, any distraction, you remember that one of your new scribes had requested that you review his notes. You shift away to pluck them up from the desk he left them on.

“I do not pout,” you reply - then remember yourself, “my lord.”

His heat follows. “You do.”

You catch yourself just before you can turn to scowl at him. This may be unfamiliar territory that you’re treading, but you can sense that you’re playing with fire. Perhaps literally.

Entirely distracted, you pretend to skim through the record.

“As my lord says,” you demure.

He snickers at your dry tone, and then - gods in the heavens - leans closer. If possible, you read the report even more intensely but process even less.

“And what has my shika-san’s eyes away from her king?”

“I thought you don’t like when people look at you, my king.”

There’s a beat of silence where you worry that you’ve finally gone too far. But then he hums, deep and low, just by your ear. He must be nearly to your shoulder, you think wildly. You don’t dare turn your head to check.

“It’s a privilege that most don’t deserve.” He still sounds amused. “And your king asked you a question.”

You flip back to the front of the document, willing your hands to stay steady.

“Kuzusuke-san asked me to review his transcription from today,” you explain, “but… honestly, it looks acceptable to me. Unless he’s missing something important that I wouldn’t know about.”

“This is from the concubines?” Sukuna inquires, giving the first couple pages a once-over.

You nod, “I guess one of them complained.”

He makes an aggravated noise, sounding more distant now. “If his work is suitable, then pay it no mind. You have a more important task to complete.”

You’ll look it over again when the spice of his scent isn’t clouding your mind. You turn to him now that you’re confident his face is no longer so dangerously close.

“I do?”

“You must pick a new book to read,” he declares.

You blink, lips parting. A new one?! He wants you to keep reading to him? Not that you didn’t think he enjoyed it - if he didn’t, he wouldn’t have sat with you every evening, listening and commenting. But still… you thought the novelty would wear off when you finished Genji.

“Ah, yes, my lord,” you manage, “what… would you like me to read?”

He waves an impatient hand. “How should I know, you’re the librarian.”

A baffled giggle escapes you, for lack of any other appropriate reaction. His lower set of eyes is half-lidded - though you don’t think it’s with boredom this time.

“As my lord commands,” you say, “I shall have a story picked by tomorrow evening.”

You tell Kuzusuke to be more complimentary, going forward. Lady Katsumi is silent for about a week.

One morning, Uraume wraps you in an exquisite crimson kakumaki in defense against the cold.

Lady Katsumi sends a handmaid to complain that Kuzusuke’s records are sloppy and too vague. You advise him to be as detailed as possible, even if it’s tedious. When the same handmaid returns two days later, you assign another scribe to help supplement his records. The handmaid doesn’t return.

Your blood-stained and rather overused fan is replaced with one that you know by now is bone. There’s a lavish, gold-leafed painting of your favorite koi from the pond in Sukuna’s garden.

Lady Katsumi makes a personal appearance in the library. She’s resplendent in layered silk, dripping with gold and silver jewelry, accented by jade and coral ornaments. Long, thick, glossy hair to match her immaculate ohaguro, and piercingly shrewd eyes.

Her attendants look like they were dragged out of bed far too early to dress her so nicely to intercept you before court.

She tells you that Kuzusuke’s handwriting is too ugly to transcribe for her. She demands another, so you assign Hiratake, who puts on a brave face when she snaps at him to follow her back to her quarters. Kuzusuke at least waits until the entourage is gone to cry his relief.

You’re sitting off to the side of Sukuna during a feast, painting an unflattering caricature of a curse user you think poorly of. Noticing your concentration - or perhaps even more bored than you - Sukuna hooks his fingers under the lip of your seat. In one long, slow, spine-tingling pull, he slides your chair (and by extension you) to his side.

He glances at your little art project and smirks. “His forehead should be bigger,” he says.

You hum and start all over again, this time making the curse user’s head bulbous and shiny.

For the first time - possibly ever but at least since your promotion - everyone survives that feast.

Another of Lady Katsumi’s handmaids returns to the library two days later, complaining that Hiratake asks too many questions. You advise him to just fade into the background as much as possible, and write only what he sees and hears.

A new tribute is brought before Sukuna. When this happens, he has you pull records to compare with previous offerings, partially to decide if it’s acceptable. This time, he motions you close to read over your shoulder - quicker than listing items aloud, granted. But the disparity in heights has you perching carefully on the arm of his throne.

When a bottle of sake piques his interest among the inventory, he cracks it open right there.

“Not bad,” he muses, glancing into his half-empty cup. He presses it to your bottom lip and, lacking another course of action, you drink.

When it’s empty, you hum appreciatively. It’s sweet and crisp, tastes a little like apricots. Sukuna brings the bottle to that evening’s reading session.

Lady Katsumi reportedly bursts in around midday later that week. You wouldn’t know because you’re not there, still sitting in court with Sukuna. Apparently, she’s got a number of complaints that all seem to amount to Hiratake being an insufficient scribe.

By the time you hear of it, it’s far too late in the evening for you to be patient. Exasperated, you switch him out for the last of the scribes on your staff, Masayuki.

Sukuna’s in a foul mood. You’re not sure what’s sparked his temper this time, but you keep your fan handy. He calls an end to court even earlier than usual and storms to the archery range. You, as always, follow at his elbow with Uraume.

He doesn’t speak for a long time, firing arrow after vicious arrow at squirming targets. Without anything to transcribe, you sit and begin weaving blades of wilting grass together.

“I’m guessing you haven’t learned any skill with weaponry,” he says after he’s painstakingly “finished” three “targets.”

He sounds calmer now, at least, and his expression when he half-turns towards you is simmering rather than boiling. You absently offer the tiny basket you’ve crafted.

“You’re correct, my lord. I learned how to arrange flowers instead,” you answer.

He snorts, lower set of eyes tilting with amusement as he inspects your miniature craft.

“I will teach you when it’s warmer,” he says. “Your fingers will freeze before you hit a target in this weather.”

You nearly ask why. Instead, you challenge him to make increasingly difficult shots, and he proceeds to make every single one. The showoff.

Lady Katsumi approaches Uraume, saying that Masayuki makes her feel unsafe - though she doesn’t provide any specific or punishable instances of behavior.

Considering the nature of this particular issue, it’s brought to Sukuna for judgement. He crosses his arms as he listens to Uraume’s secondhand account, one set of eyes on the ceiling, the other askance at seemingly nothing. Then he turns to you.

“Is Masayuki a problem?” he asks.

You certainly don’t know him well, but you can understand how a complete stranger might balk. He’s taller and wider than the other scribes, and has a gruff speech pattern. But you’ve also seen the careful way he holds his calligraphy brushes and how he looks at Moriyoshi.

“He can be intimidating, but it’s not on purpose,” you say finally. “I would be surprised if he… regarded any woman.”

Sukuna makes a “huh” noise - that’s a new one you gleefully tuck away in your mind.

“Fine, give her one of the other two,” he says, not realizing that you’ve already done that.

You simply nod, at your wit’s end. You send Kiro as a temporary placement while you figure out a more longterm solution - it usually takes a few days before she starts complaining.

As luck would have it, Sukuna has a meeting planned three days later. Normally, you would sit in on any meeting as a witness to any deals or promises made. (Not that Sukuna is beholden to anything but a pact - but he likes to know precise wording for the purpose of being the menace that he is.) However, this meeting is with a sorcerer, one that’s apparently expressed a desire to defect.

“It’s a trap, isn’t it?” you ask curiously.

He shrugs. “Probably.”

It will be futile regardless, you know. Just an opportunity to kill more annoying sorcerers. And if, by some slim chance, the offer is sincere, Sukuna won’t pass up the allure of corruption and betrayal.

“You’ll stay here this time,” he explains. “Sorcerers are a pain in the ass, who knows what stupid shit they might try with you there.”

You haven’t gone a single day without Sukuna in… months. Nearly a year. The prospect makes you uneasy now, when you once would have felt bone-melting relief. But it is an opportunity to investigate this ongoing problem with Lady Katsumi.

“Try not to miss me too much, Shika,” he coos with a smirk.

You fix him with a blank look and do your best impression of Uraume. “I shall do my utmost, my lord.”

He cackles.

You trudge to the harem’s wing with Kuzusuke and Hiratake that morning. Kiro was once again near tears with relief and Moriyoshi was apologetic as you prepared your supplies. You wave away their concern while tucking ink bricks into the pocket of your mo.

Lady Katsumi has her own private chamber in the concubines’ sprawling quarters. She really must be favored, despite Sukuna’s scoffing. Or (more likely) he just can’t be bothered by the social underpinnings of such gestures.

Reflective of the woman herself, it’s richly furnished and decadent, every piece carefully selected and positioned to display opulence and refined taste. The air is so sweet that you can feel a headache already brewing. Never did you think you’d miss the sour odor of curse guts.

“My scribes’ work has been insufficient for the lady,” you explain, “so I’ve come to understand what improvements can be made.”

She glances at you in the silver mirror she’s poised in front of, the final touches of her ensemble being clasped and pinned in place. If you had blinked, you would have missed it, but there’s animosity roiling behind her serene facade. It’s as unexpected as it is unwarranted, but you shrug it off.

“So thorough,” she croons, “I see why my king has tolerated you for so long.”

You hum, a noncommittal but passable response while you date the beginning of the day’s record.

What proceeds is the single most infuriating handful of hours you’ve experienced since coming to Sukuna’s estate. It reminds you of those years before, when you were still a nobleman’s daughter. Here in the concubine’s wing - or at least with Lady Katsumi - that culture of doublespeak, backhanded compliments, and needle-sharp barbs is alive and well.

It’s like nostalgia’s loathsome cousin. You quickly come to understand why Kiro and Hiratake were near tears when you relieved them of this particular duty.

You’re forced to sit through an extended tea ceremony and a poetry reading. Then dragged through the frosty gardens, not at all prepared for the chill and denied the opportunity to fetch your kakumaki. She takes lunch but titters that it’s unsightly for servants to dine with higher stations, and you are too busy serving her to excuse yourself besides.

You wouldn’t think it was personal - after all, she’s done nothing but clap and snap her fingers at every servant unfortunate enough to be within hearing distance. However, you’re not blind to the hostile and disparaging looks she repeatedly scans you with. Even if it is targeted for some reason, you still don’t take it to heart.

When she’s done eating, she demands to read through your notes thus far. You offer them without a word.

She barely glances at it before clicking her tongue. “What is this ink? It is so cheap.”

“It is what Uraume-san has provided,” you answer. It’s also not cheap, you’ve seen the seal on the artful boxes they come in.

“I’ve heard there is a red one,” she says, “that color more befits my station.”

You tilt your head, amused. “That is the ink Sukuna-sama has chosen for himself.”

The implication is clear - if she persists, she is likening her station to Sukuna’s. And that is a death sentence. No one here is loyal (or scared) enough that such a slight will stay within these chambers.

She must realize it because she stills, eyes widening in equal parts anger and uncertainty. But she recovers impressively fast.

“Very well, perhaps blue,” she says breezily, “his majesty finds me quite fetching in blue.”

“Perhaps,” you agree, only just leashing your sarcasm.

The corners of her mouth pinch anyway.

There’s flower arranging, then music while she paints. You transcribe it all as faithfully and thoroughly as you would for Sukuna, borrowing lessons from court days to pass the time as it drags.

“You are by far the least annoying of Sukuna-sama’s scribes,” she observes apropos nothing, voice sugary.

You don’t look up from a painstaking description of the tea she’s drinking. “A high compliment,” you remark, flatter than is polite.

“Perhaps you should be my scribe from now on,” she continues, “surely it must be under consideration, if he’s let me borrow you for the day.”

Your bite the corner of your mouth to curb a chuckle. Somehow, the idea that Sukuna loaned you out is so outlandish it’s funny. He’s not exactly renowned for his charity and magnanimity.

“Yes, I think I’ll ask Sukuna-sama to give you to me,” she muses brightly. “He denies me nothing, especially when I remedy his travel tensions.”

This time, you can’t help it, you snort. It’s loud and rude and unmistakably mocking. From this last journey you took with him, he made it abundantly clear that the only remedy he desires after travel is the onsen and strong sake.

Lady Katsumi’s eyes narrow as she lowers her teacup. “You dare doubt the king’s generosity?”

“Certainly not,” you reply, irony audible. “In fact, I can ask him when I’ve finished transcribing for him tonight. You’ll have plenty of time to prepare your… remedies.”

Her face twists. Suddenly. Violently.

You’re so taken aback that you don’t react in time. Her bejeweled arm winds back, then hurls her half-empty teacup at your head. She aims true.

Exquisite ceramic shatters across your right eye.

Jagged shards flay your brow, cheekbone, eyelid - and the thin, gelatinous membrane of your cornea.

A scream rips from what feels like your very soul. The pain is beyond excruciating. Not even the white-hot yet burning-cold you’ve rarely experienced. It’s something else, something defying any of the pretty words now emptied from your howling mind.

You didn’t know that agony was a complete sentence until now.

Your hand flies up on protective instinct, in vain. Something hot and wet coats your palm, seeps between your shaking fingers, slides along the tendons of your hand.

It doesn’t feel like blood, you think hysterically, it doesn’t feel like blood.

It’s smearing across your cheeks, streaking down your jaw, and dripping from your chin.

In your panic and pain and horror, you don’t hear what Lady Katsumi is saying. She’s speaking, voice like poison-tipped needles, but you can’t make out the syllables. Can’t understand anything over the ragged sounds spilling from your throat.

Until you hear a new voice. A voice you recognize. A voice that, despite every reason telling you otherwise, brings relief. The pain doesn’t subside in the slightest, but somehow it becomes more bearable.

You try to open an eye. Your only eye, now. The thought brings a fresh wave of misery.

“Sukuna,” you choke out.

His shadow cloaks you, an immovable barrier between you and the room. Through swimming vision, you make out the watery lines of his tattoos. The maw of his stomach is baring its fangs, snarling. You can’t make out his face.

A large, firm hand circles your wrist. The one protecting the gaping wound in your skull. A whimper shakes free from your raw throat. You resist an unexpectedly gentle tug.

“I can’t…” you sob, shaking. “It hurts…”

Another hand steadies your swaying body, firm at your waist.

“Drop your hand,” he says. His voice is low and hard, each word articulated slowly. Purposefully. “Let me see.”

Despite every fiber of your body crying against it, your arm goes lax and Sukuna guides it down. A third hand takes your chin between between thumb and forefinger, tilting your head back.

His features are still blurry. You can just make out the tense line of his angular jaw, and the muscle ticking there. The top pair of his eyes are tight around the edges, but carefully blank, matching the smooth set of his brows. But the lower pair… the lower pair blow wide when they see the damage. And they burn.

Sukuna leans down, leans close. The smoke and spice of him mingles with the copper of blood. The severe line of his mouth parts. His tongue, hot and slick, flattens against your cheek and drags. Follows the sticky-wet mixture of blood and tears and fluid, all the way to the corner of your ruined socket.

You watch through your remaining eye as his pupils dilate. Ink spilled into blood.

Your mind falls silent. Still.

The pain retreats like the rush of a tide. In its place, a discomfiting tingle, akin to falling asleep on your arm, begins to radiate across your face.

“There now,” he rasps, giving your chin a tiny shake. “All those tears over a few scratches.”

At some point, your free hand curled around his wrist. Perhaps an aborted attempt to stop him (though the urge never even crossed your mind, and you wouldn’t have been able to besides) but more likely seeking stability.

“Sukuna…” you mumble.

“Open your eye, Shika.”

Your heart leaps when you find that you can.

You’re staring up at Sukuna with both eyes wide, vision clear. The shredded skin around them stings, but it’s nothing, absolutely nothing to what you felt before.

“Oh,” you whisper, hoarse, “I was just panicked… how silly.”

His eyes flicker. You’re still too frazzled to parse what it means, but you don’t think you’ve ever seen this expression on his face.

“Silly,” he echoes. It almost sounds like agreement. (You know it’s not.)

The hand still around your wrist tightens fractionally. You’re not sure if it’s meant to be a reassuring gesture or a tiny sliver of the storm brewing behind his eyes, slipping out.

“Uraume.” He calls. “See to my shika’s wounds. I will find you both. Later.”

“Yes, Sukuna-sama.”

A white shape at the edge of your restored vision steps closer, but doesn’t intrude. Sukuna still hasn’t released you. You draw in a slow breath, what feels like the first in a long time. You squeeze his wrist slightly in return.

“Welcome back, my king.”

He releases you all at once, leaving you momentarily unbalanced. But he doesn’t remove your hand from his arm, doesn’t step away. You find your footing, unlatch your fingers, and force your weak legs to turn towards Uraume. Whatever you look like - and it must be truly awful - it makes their usually stoic face twitch. The temperature seems to plummet.

As soon as you begin wobbling away from Sukuna, their hand curls tightly in the sleeve of your kosode and drags you away.

Sukuna remains behind. A final glance over your shoulder reveals Sukuna, staring at your blood pooled on the floor and Lady Katsumi frozen, wide-eyed and gray, standing by her tea table.

Uraume doesn’t take you far. One wing over, weaving through chambers and halls to avoid the busier engawas. You follow along quietly, focusing on the unnatural chill of their hand in yours to stay tethered. Your efforts are unsuccesful.

It seems that between one blink and the next you’re in an unfamiliar room, warm and quiet. Uraume sits you on a cushioned stool.

Another blink and they’re leaning over you with a warm cloth, dabbing at the cuts around your eye. That numbing tingle returns, one by one, then fades like a dream. In its absence, you feel nothing but water cooling on your skin.

“There,” they says, satisfaction in their voice.

A third blink and they’re pressing a hot cup into your hand. The welcome taste of sencha washes over your tongue and soothes your sore throat. You sigh, tension leeching out of you with every sip.

They press a steaming rice bowl into your hands when you’ve finished your tea. You spare a thought to protest, afraid you won’t be able to stomach anything - but one glance at Uraume’s expression and you swallow any refusal with the taste of nori. It stays down.

Once the bowl is empty - or at least empty enough for their posture to soften - Uraume helps you stand again.

“A bath,” they explain when you hesitate.

They slide open a shoji door, revealing steps down to a private stone onsen. You’re left to undress in privacy, with promises to bring a towel and fresh clothing. The heat makes you shudder; you didn’t realize how cold you were until now.

You sink gratefully into the depths and settle on the little shelf carved out as a bench. Your mind drifts for a long time, gaze focused on nothing while you massage the various stains from your hands. Thoughts float to the surface like dead fish, flashing their pale bellies with blood-soaked images.

The animosity in Katsumi’s eyes. The tight press of her painted lips. The twist of her features. That fraction of a second as the teacup hurtled towards you, and you realized what was about to happen.

You banish each one with the memory of Sukuna standing there. Shielding you, protecting you. Easing your pain and fear.

It’s so fantastical a concept that you almost dismiss it as a hallucination. But you remember the firm, grounding press of his hands on your body, the searing heat of his tongue on your cheek.

Ryomen Sukuna healed you.

Almost unconsciously, you raise your hand to your face again. Tremulous fingers brush featherlight over your eyebrow, eyelid, cheek, temple… and find nothing. No scratches or cuts, just bits of dry blood that Uraume couldn’t get without rubbing at your skin more vigorously.

You don’t know what it all means. Lady Katsumi’s hostility. Sukuna’s care - and to a lesser extent, Uraume’s. Every action and reaction seems displaced or hyperbolic. A fire ignited by the smallest spark, onto timber you don’t remember collecting. You scour your mind for answers and discover none in the wreckage of your composure.

Well. You’re no philosopher or scientist. You’re just a bookkeeper - Sukuna’s bookkeeper. Perhaps that’s explanation enough.

Sighing, you open your eyes and drop them to your clean palms.

Two thick, dark bands circle your wrist. The one Sukuna was holding.

As it turns out, the unfamiliar bathing chamber that Uraume brought you to is Sukuna’s. After everything else - after he healed your eye instead of reveling in your pain - this is somehow the easiest development to swallow.

Sukuna enters as Uraume is finishing a braid in your wet hair. You’re dressed, and clean, and calm now. And when he approaches, you’re warm too.

His expression is as impassive as you’ve ever seen it, even his lower set of eyes gaze at you steadily, unreadable. No blood on his skin or clothes. You tilt your head back to address him as he stops, as close as he was in Katsumi’s chambers.

“How was the meeting?” you ask.

His arm curls around your waist and begins lifting you from the stool. But before you can get your feet under you, the lower arm loops under your thighs. He scoops you up, raises you until your shoulders are just above his.

You open your mouth. He tilts his head and presses his nose into the column of your neck. Words flee like startled birds. Strands of peach hair feather across your jaw and ear, ticklish. Hot breaths caress the sensitive skin of your throat. He inhales, deeply.

“Sukuna-sama?” you murmur, more curious than alarmed.

He shifts. Lips graze the tender hollow beneath your jaw. They part. You think, for just a fraction of a second, that you feel the wicked points of his teeth.

“A trap, as I said,” he rasps.

It takes you a moment to recall your question. You hum, mouth curling in a small but genuine grin. “As you said, my lord.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.” There’s no heat - well, no angry heat - in his voice.

“I’m not,” you huff, amused at his audible offense.

“Then you’re mocking me.”

“Never, my lord.”

He hums, pulls back far enough to scowl at you properly. It’s a fearsome expression; you should be afraid. (You’re not.)

“I thought you once said you wouldn’t insult me by lying,” he says.

“And I have not,” you promise, “does my king doubt me?”

His eyes don’t waver. “No.”

Your hands hover over a freshly bound volume. The cover has been treated to a mellow tan shade, a slight sheen of polish where the candlelight hits just so. The edition number is imprinted across the front and the spine in bold, precise Tensho. It could be mistaken for normal leather.

Splendid work, truly.

“Shikako-san, would you like me to shelve that for you?” Kiro asks.

You blink, glance at him. Only the twitch of his fingers betrays his nervousness. All of your assistants have been a bit skittish since… well, since.

“Set it on an empty shelf,” you say, offering it across your desk, “these are the records I’ve taken for Sukuna-sama so far. More will follow.”

“Ah,” he says. He’s especially gentle as he takes it despite the new, strong bindings. “Are congratulations appropriate for this?”

You hum, noncommittal. “Not necessary, but thank you, Kiro-san.”

You turn back to your court preparations, sure that you were just imagining the sweet, cloying scent clinging to the volume.

Your new quarters are steadily, and not entirely by your own volition, being filled. Pieces of Sukuna’s tributes begin finding their way inside. (Well, more accurately, they show up outside the door and you feel compelled to bring them inside.)

A large, luxurious rug with patterns and colors you admired aloud. A beautifully glazed tea set that your fingers lingered on when you poured a cup for Sukuna. Paintings that caught your eye. An armoire for your steadily growing (and colorful) wardrobe. You already have a private book collection stacking up on a stately writing desk.

It’s farther from the library, but Uraume doesn’t mind helping you wake a little earlier, especially since your chambers are on the way to Sukuna’s.

Your reading and writing sessions begin taking place in his sitting room, since the weather’s taken a turn for the frigid. Sometimes you share a couch, thighs pressed together. Other times, he drops onto the tatami mats by your chair and leans his muscular shoulder against your calf. Once, he sits you between his thick thighs with your back to his broad chest, so that he can rest his chin on your shoulder and follow along.

The minuscule part of you raised on propriety and modesty balks and flails at this change in your interactions. Like most traditions and social expectations, Sukuna gleefully smothers it with hands that toy with your hair. You settle into it a little easier, a little quicker, each time. You even come to expect it, leaning into him.

He sends you to bed every night with a smirk, knowing you can’t sneak away to stay up in the library. Not with him so close. That doesn’t necessarily mean you sleep as soon as you return to your own room, though.

It’s only because you’re so detail-oriented that you notice how empty the halls are each morning and every evening. Surely, with your quarters between Sukuna’s and the concubine’s wing, you expect to hear one or more of them passing. You never do; perhaps they’re just too quiet to detect. (You don’t think about shadows you never see moving beyond the wall.)

There’s a festival on the horizon, and the estate is abuzz with preparations.

Sukuna is pleased by both the unapologetic hedonism of celebration, and the opportunity to corrupt a traditionally religious event. As long as he’s not bogged down with tedious decisions and monotonous logistics, that is. For the most part, he just sits in on those meetings for posterity. You, however, are always dutifully taking notes (and doodling when the vassals in charge of planning argue) usually while sat on his lap.

Most of the record-keeping of finer details are left to your assistants. They seem equal parts harried and excited by the busyness of the festival schedule. You provide them support and direction when needed, and take those assignments that put them within devouring distance of the less trustworthy curses organizing things.

Those curses might even have considered taking advantage of you, were it not for the unmissable black bands around your wrist. Because they decorate the arm of your writing hand, and you must pull your sleeve back to keep it out of the ink, they’re always on display. Bold and unmistakable, an exact match to the ones on Sukuna’s own wrists.

You’ve caught more than one of his sycophants gawking at them, but none ever dare to question aloud. (Mind, you’ve also caught Sukuna himself staring at them. Repeatedly. Though using “caught” is a misnomer because it implies guilt. You doubt Sukuna is even capable of such a feeling.)

In all honesty, you can’t recall ever interacting with a curse (other than Sukuna) one-on-one until now. You were rightfully terrified of them before, and they had no reason save predation to approach you. Things are different, even if the exact nature of that difference still eludes you.

They regard you with a certain respect now - or at least a healthy dose of precaution. They maintain an arm’s (or appendage’s) length from you, and keep their eyes always trained over your shoulder. If you didn’t know better, you’d think some of them were even scared.

As the date draws closer, the masses flock to the town hosting the festivities. Fewer make the perilous voyage to the estate itself, humans and curses alike, hoping to be permitted to stay. You don’t understand it - or at least you would not have, once upon a time. They do not know Sukuna as you’d like to think you do, so you can’t fathom why they’d take the risk.

Not that it’s truly any concern of yours. You’ve no time to muse on the folly of others, your hands are full enough as is.

Perhaps too full - you forget yourself, and the nature of this place you live in.

It’s evening and you’ve gone to fetch a new story to entertain Sukuna. Your assistants have been excused for the evening, most other servants are preparing to retire. The halls are empty. Deserted.

You turn a counter and nearly collide with someone, only just stop short and stumble around them.

“Oh!” you say. “Apologies, I didn’t hear you coming.”

The man standing in front of you is taller than you, though not nearly as imposing as Sukuna. He’s muscular, bald, and tanned, wearing a leathery black… apron, of some kind. He only just arrived today, you think, Sukuna had some interest in his craftsmanship. Something about bones, maybe?

“Oh, it’s…” he starts, but then he sees you and his eyes widen, “it’s you…”

The corners of his mouth start stretching and curling.

“Me?” you ask, uneasy.

“So fine and delicate,” he murmurs, almost to himself. That awful smile keeps growing. More deranged. More manic. Deforming the dark markings around his eyes. “I could make so many beautiful things with those bones…”

You dredge your voice up from the pit of your stomach, where it dropped along with your heart.

“I’m sure you could, but it would be foolish to try.”

“Shhhh.” He starts reaching towards you. “Bookshelves don’t need to speak.”

You jerk back, heart racing, and raise your arm protectively. The sleeves of your kosode and uchiki slide down your forearm.

“Neither do maggots.”

The man freezes. Your eyes flick up to the monstrous shadow behind him, find the four scarlet eyes glowing in the darkened hall. Your would-be attacker’s eyes begin to water, as they finally notice the black circles on your wrist.

“Or dead men,” you mumble.

“My clever shika,” Sukuna purrs.

Four large hands clamp onto the mans arms, two each, just above the elbows.

“R-Ryomen S-S-Sukuna-sama,” the man chokes out, whimpering.

And then Sukuna pulls. It’s terrifyingly fast, and yet just slow enough to be agonizing. First skin tears, then muscle. Tendons and ligaments snap, thick and wet. And finally the joints of the man’s shoulders yield, disconnecting from their sockets with a squelching pop.

You squint at the sight and fold your arms protectively over your book. Take a step back to avoid the blood spray.

The severed limbs flop when they hit the ground, grotesque. You only cast them a cursory glance, the disgust vague and distant after all this time. The body, bleeding and twitching but still alive, follows with a louder thump.

You turn back to Sukuna just as his gaze lock onto you.

Your mouth opens thank him - only for the breath to be knocked out of you. Dizzy and disoriented, it takes a beat to realize you’re horizontal, and the surface against your back is soft.

You blink, dumbstruck, at Sukuna’s face looming over yours.

“Helpless woman,” he growls, “how many ways must I show that you are mine?”

You don’t think he’s expecting an answer - if he is, then he robs you of the ability when he ducks his head and bites. A yelp jumps from your throat. Your hands latch onto the closest support, which just so happens to be the corded muscle of his lower arms.

More startled than pained, you squirm and gasp as he clamps down harder. Bruising but still not breaking skin. His tongue laves over the flesh between his sharp teeth, hot and deliciously dexterous. A low groan rumbles from his chest, more felt than heard, shaking you to your foundations.

He’s breathing hard, you realize. Hard and fast, puffing hot by your ear.

“Sukuna-sama…” Your voice is breathy and high, unfamiliar. “W-what…?”

You can’t finish the thought as he pulls away - though not without licking a stripe up to your jaw, teeth grazing. You feel as if the air has been stolen from your lungs again. His eyes are glowing, more pupil than iris. His lips are shiny with saliva, wicked fangs peeking out.

“All the times you have spoken to me,” he intones, “and this is the first time your clever tongue has faltered.”

You blink at him, head spinning. He’s so close. You’ve long grown used to the raw power that radiates off him but this is something else, writhing and hungry in a way it’s never been before. You’re all too aware of your heart pounding against his broad chest, giving you away.

And you have no idea what to say. Surely you’ve stuttered in front of him before… you just can’t think of any instances. Can’t think of anything really.

“I-I don’t… Sukuna-sam-ah!” The moan what spills from your lips is utterly embarrassing, loud and lewd, provoked by the thick thigh wedged between your own. Pressing tight and hard right where you’re starting to ache.

“My name,” he demands. There’s something almost desperate prowling at the edges of his voice. “Just my name. Say it.”

You drag your tongue over your bottom lip, watch the way his bottom pair of eyes fixate on it.

“Sukuna,” you whisper.

All four eyes snap back to yours.

“Again.”

“Sukuna,” you murmur.

His top pair of arms snatch up your wrists and pin them to the mattress. The dry riiiiip of fabric accompanies a rush of air across your overheated body. Something (big) presses hard against your hip. You shiver, but you’re not cold.

“Louder,” he snarls.

You feel movement from his abdomen. Realize what’s happening just as that unnatural mouth parts, and saliva drools onto your bare pelvis.

“Sukuna,” you moan as a slippery tongue laps between your thighs.

An inhuman sound rips from his throat as he tastes the arousal already dripping from your sex. Your eyelids flutter, hips twisting and twitching, not sure if you’re pressing into the unfamiliar pleasure or shying away from the intensity of it.

His mouth, his proper mouth, crashes into yours and swallows the noises that pour from you in earnest. The tongue that dominates yours mirrors the curls and flicks of the one lavishing your cunt with attention.

His hands are everywhere, pinning your shoulders to the bed, squeezing your thighs, massaging your breasts and thumbing your nipples. It’s so much, too much, but you’re too busy sucking on his tongue to do anything but whine about it.

When he breaks this kiss, all four of his eyes are half-lidded, radiating lust. He chases the taste of you across his swollen lips.

“I’ll have you screaming my name by the end of this,” he promises.

The tongue between your legs presses flat. You’re embarrassed that your hips instinctively rock against it, clumsy and needy.

“Th-that’s obscene,” you babble.

His grin is crooked and absolutely wicked. “Compliments won’t save you now, little one.”

You mewl as two of his hands grip your hips and hold them still. That ravenous tongue starts a slow, torturous circuit. Slow and covetous around your clit, then dragging down to your virgin hole, teasing with delicious pressure, threatening to dip inside.

“Look at me.”

It’s a struggle, especially when that damned mouth won’t stop. (You think you might cry if it did.)

“You’re going to come on every finger that stretches you,” he says, voice deeper and darker than a moonless night. “And if you’re still conscious by the time I’m done, I’ll fuck you on one of my cocks.”

You boggle at him. “O-one of…?”

The chuckle you get in response is mean.

You don’t even have a chance to insist, because his tongue curves back up to that bundle of nerves and grinds. You’re vaguely conscious of a hand leaving your hip, fingertips skimming down your thigh, to your knee, before looping back up to play in the wetness pooling from your entrance.

“Always so observant,” he coos.

His hands are much, much bigger than yours. Even if you indulged in masturbating more than occasionally before now, you don’t think it would have prepared you. The stretch isn’t frightening enough to make you clench up, at least. It still makes you keen, grasping at one of the arms planted on the mattress by your head.

“Theeeere we go,” he purrs, languid and smug, “already so tight, precious girl. How does it feel?”

“G-Good,” you hiccup, “so… so good. I don’t think I’m going to…”

“What’s this? Already?” he chuckles - then outright cackles when he notices how you clench at the sound. His finger crooks inside you, stroking your walls with every pump of his arm, unhurried. “Don’t worry, I won’t make you hold it. At least not tonight.”

That dark promise winds you up even tighter, even faster. Coupled with the rhythmic undulations of his tongue and the devilish, curling motions against your sweet spot…

You come so fast it leaves you lightheaded, a tidal wave of euphoria that washes over you, leaves you gasping and limp. It’s almost gentle for how quickly it takes you.

Sukuna works you through it until your back is flat to the bed again. Your limbs are tingling, skin sensitive.

He drops a biting kiss to your collarbone. “That’s one.”

That’s all the warning you get before he withdraws his hand, only to return with two fingers already slippery from a mix of saliva and your own slick. Riding the buzz of climax, you barely feel the stretch of them being tucked inside.

You are, however, very aware of them flicking against your overstimulated walls.

“I-I can’t,” you gasp.

“You can,” he promises, “and even if you can’t, you will.”

You writhe beneath him, mind blank as fresh parchment, swept up in sensation beyond anything you’ve experience before. Not like this.

He pumps his hand faster, harder. His tongue flicks cruelly at your swollen clit, over and over and over again, until you swear your heart beats in time with every hot lash.

He palms one of your breasts roughly, dips down to take a nipple into his mouth, scraping his teeth over the aching peak. It feels better than it has any right to, like there’s a direct connection to your fluttering pussy. Winding you up, and up…

The mouth on his stomach closes around your clit and sucks, then licks at the trapped little bud.

There’s nothing gentle about this orgasm. It crashes into you like a tsunami, sweeping you away in a rush of ecstasy. The hand not clawing at Sukuna’s forearm pushes insistently, helplessly at his shoulder. He just huffs in amusement and shoves his fingers as deep as they’ll go.

In the aftermath, you’re a trembling, panting mess. Incoherent, overwhelmed. Blessedly, his movements slow and then stop. Finally, you can breathe. You swallow past a dry throat and try to focus your vision.

When the image of Sukuna sharpens, your heart stops. He looks as ravenous as when this all began.

“One more, I think,” he muses, “you’ve been so good, you deserve to be spoiled. Don’t you, Shika-hime?”

Your face burns.

“Sukuna,” you warble, “d-don’t call me… don’t s-say that.”

But you recognize the unrestrained greed in his eyes, the sadistic pleasure curling his lips.

“What was that?” he snickers. “It’s just like a princess to be so ungrateful, hm?”

You feel a finger prodding at the tight, puffy seal around his other two. A hysterical mix of anticipation and dismay sears through your veins and springs your shaky limbs into action. You try to scramble back, up the bed, away, anything.

But you should know better than anyone. With Sukuna, there is no escape. And there is no mercy.

He only needs two hands to pin you immobile, writhing and pleading nonsense. He starts fucking you on his hand again, abusing your poor walls with ruthless strokes, and starts working another finger inside.

The stretch is noticeable this time, mostly just pressure but even the slight sting complements the excessive pleasure at this point. It doesn’t stop you from tucking your face into his forearm as you dry sob. Even for all that, your legs wrap around that tapered waist to keep him close - as if he’d go anywhere when you’re suffering so exquisitely.

“Oh, listen to those pathetic noises,” he mocks, “you can do better than that.”

His tongue licks around your entrance, keeping his movements slick and easy as he works you over faster, harder, fingers pounding at that swollen spot inside you. In its place, the thumb of a different hand presses against your clit and rubs viciously, up and down and in tight circles.

Your leg kicks out, a reaction you’re not entirely in control of. His free hands clamps down on your ankle and jerks your leg wider. You feel exposed, displayed. His fingers hook inside your entrance and jerk. Your lips part on a soundless scream.

A palm wraps around your throat, his thumb and forefinger cupping your jaw. Only just tight enough to make a claim, to make you feel it. He angles your head, leans closer, and spits directly on your tongue. You swallow, cunt spasming at the lewdness.

He buries his fingers deep just as he strikes your clit with the flat of his fingers.

Tears build and spill as your vision crackles, a high-pitched cry of his name filling the room. All you can think, all you can understand anymore. You feel weightless, outside your own body, overwrought and incandescent in a way you don’t think humans were meant to be.

You’re not even finished with your third orgasm when you realize, with dawning horror, that the weightless feeling isn’t just your mind strung out. Sukuna’s hands are holding you, maneuvering you. There’s a distant rustling sound, and then your sore pussy is being absolutely violated by an impossibly thick cock.

You know better than to waste your energy on frivolous things like escape or begging. Instead, you do as any intelligent being does when directly in the path of Ryomen Sukuna’s conquest. You surrender.

Your arms slink over his shoulders and loop around his neck, nails biting into hard muscle. Hiding your face against his neck, you breath in the heady scent of his lust, and distract yourself with mouthing along his rumbling throat.

You sink down bit by torturous bit, willing yourself to relax, to yield. The worst part, you think to yourself, is that it still feels sinfully good.

Something presses against your stomach, wet and sticky. When you peek down, you choke out a stupid noise. There’s a twitching, leaking cock rubbing against your abdomen… but there can’t be anything but a cock splitting you open now.

Which means… which means…

One of my cocks, he said.

Even you aren’t sure if the moan that comes out is wanton or miserable. Either way, it makes Sukuna laugh into your hair.

“Halfway,” he soothes. At least, you think it’s meant to be soothing, though it misses the mark because you already feel stuffed full.

You squeeze your eyes shut again and set your teeth against his collarbone, biting as he guides you down… until you finally stop. You swear you feel him in your throat.

“I think I deserve a reward for my generosity,” he says - and perhaps it’s supposed to be a drawl, but right now he sounds borderline deranged. “Don’t you?”

“Ngh!”

His fingers dig into the plush of your hips and thighs. He lifts you up until you’re halfway off the length you took so long to take… and then he drops you. And then he does it again. And again. Faster, faster, harder. Until he’s bouncing you like a toy, like an object for his own pleasure. He’s not even straining with effort, tilting his head back with a gutted groan, proclaiming his pleasure to the ceiling.

When his hips starting thrusting forward to meet you on each descent, you realize why he chose the bottom of his two cocks. The shaft of the other one glides over your clit with every movement, and shows him exactly how deep he is in your guts.

Tears streak down your cheeks again, all of it too much, too intense, but perfect.

He fucks you straight through another, pitiful orgasm, your rippling cunt only serving to encourage him to keep going. Your hands rake over his back and shoulders, no sense for how hard, only that it makes it all bearable, somehow.

You’re not even surprised when another orgasm tails the last, but the strange, sharp pressure makes you squirm, makes you whimper. It builds and builds, inevitable as the sunrise, and finally bursts. A flood of liquid splatters the two of you, drips onto the blankets below, and sets Sukuna off into a final series of brutal, bone-rattling thrusts.

His teeth sink into your shoulder and break skin this time as he hilts himself inside you. Every twitch and spurt feels magnified to your overused nerves. You don’t even feel the bite he just took out of you. Part of you even feels endeared by it.

But most of you feels deeply, viscerally satisfied as your eyes slip closed and your mind goes dark.

The festival lasts three long days and nights. There’s drinking and feasting, singing and dancing and music, skilled craftsmen showcasing their talents. Fireworks streak through the cold evenings and each morning brings delicate layers of frost and snow. Merriment prevails, even with the congestion of human bodies attracting curses in the streets.

You spend the first day planted on Sukuna’s lap, every part of your body deliciously sore and shoulder aching pleasantly. He’d laughed when he noticed your unsteady legs and stiff steps that morning, excused you from your usual duties to avoid an extra trip to the library.

Kiro transcribes in your place that day, recording the brave troupes that wait their turn to entertain the king of curses. You are tasked with attending to Sukuna’s appetites between performances, offering sake and feeding him decadent foods. He snickers every time his teeth snap dangerously close to your fingertips, and you always level him with an unimpressed look.

The second day, you are feeling recovered enough to accompany Sukuna to the festival grounds. A wide and respectful path parts well ahead of him, making it easy for you to stay by his side in the crowd. He takes - doesn’t buy, of course - anything that catches his (or your) fancy from the stalls. You end up with a beautifully illuminated manuscript, a new collection of ink in various colors, and jingling silver hair pins.

You show your appreciation that evening in Sukuna’s private onsen, riding each of his massive cocks in turn. His big hands guide you until your body adjusts to the rhythm he prefers - fast, rough, and hard. He keeps his face buried in the crook of your neck, tonguing the bite mark healing on your shoulder. Sharp nails scratch stringing lines over your ass and thighs, little pinpricks when he squeezes that make you gasp and moan.

You come apart on him twice before he spills inside you even once, cheated by the clever thumb that toys with your throbbing clit. He clicks his tongue when you get teary after the third, body shaking with exhaustion and doing little more than wriggling in his lap. He lays you flat on the cold stones and takes his pleasure from your limp and willing body, your knees hooked in the crook of two arms. The upper ones.

You expect the third day to be the one he most enjoys - and he does, though not for the reason you expect.

It’s slated to be a tournament series of fights between curses, curse users, and a handful of unfortunate sorcerers taken hostage. Exactly the type of bloody entertainment that Sukuna savors.

You should be busy recording the event as best you can, given you only have your human eyes to follow the action. Instead, when Sukuna drags you onto his throne to straddle his thighs, he tosses your writing materials aside. You can already feel him hard and pulsing against the small of your back.

A powerful arm bands around your waist, while two other hands sneak between the layers of your uchiki and kosode. He’s deliberate about it, keeping your body hidden from view by fabric but leaving no casual observer to question what’s happening.

“My lord, the battles…?” you whisper, face hot enough to steam.

“Boring,” he declares, “this is far more interesting.”

Calloused fingers part your pussy lips, glide down to your defenseless hole, still tender from the previous night. Yet, damningly, you know you’re already soaked. You feel his lips part in a mad grin, teeth pressed to the nape of your neck.

“Oh? What a hypocrite, shika-hime,” he whispers in your ear, “it seems you don’t care much for the battles either.”

You bite back a whimper, nails scraping across one of the skulls decorating the arm of his throne. It’s true, you’re not seeing a single thing in front of you. You’re too hypnotized by the cruel movements of his hand. He keeps dipping just the tip of his finger past your entrance, teasing, occasionally circling back up to your clit until you’re trembling with the effort to stay still.

By contrast, you feel him shift behind you, reclining against the back of his throne. He’s leisurely with his touch, almost mindless. Absent. When you glance at him from the corner of your eye, his chin rests in one of his palms, eyes half-lidded in the general direction of the ongoing fight.

Your body can only take so much. You know it, and he knows it. When it becomes obvious that you’re on the knife’s edge of orgasm, he speaks, though his voice stays pitched low, just for you.

“If you make a single sound, I’ll kill every person that looks this way.”

As a general rule, you don’t like unprovoked death on your behalf. You try to remind yourself of this with each whine and keen you swallow back while pleasure seizes you in wave after wave.

A shuddering breath spills from your lips as you come down, the danger passed. Until two fingers plunge into your still-twitching cunt.

You bite into your bottom lip hard. He’s relentless, keeping you still and flush against him, tapping at your pleasure spot over and over. At this point, you wouldn’t risk drawing attention to yourself even to flee.

“Sukuna,” you whisper in his ear, “please…”

He slides you a sly look and tsks. “So spoiled. Very well.”

His fourth hand smothers your mouth. The relief is short-lived. The skin touching your lips morphs, parts. A slick tongue curls around yours, teeth nipping. It’s a filthy makeshift gag but you wouldn’t complain even if that unnaturally long muscle wasn’t down your throat.

The hand that’s been methodically fingering you senseless retreats. You know better than to hope. You’re still not prepared for the wet slap against your sensitive clit. It’s loud, but the sounds of the fight are thankfully louder. He does it again, and again, an inaudible chuckle with every irrepressible jerk of your body.

Three fingers spread you open again. The palm pressed to your mound shifts in a way you recognize, and you brace yourself as a new tongue wiggles alongside his fingers. You suck on the one licking into your mouth when another orgasm shudders through you. It leaves when your jittery hand grasps at his wrist, needing air, even shaky and uneven as it comes.

Your eyes fluttered closed at some point. Now, you’re too afraid to open them - someone must have noticed by now, surely. Unless the fear of Sukuna’s wrath for looking upon him without permission is stronger than the morbid curiosity of what he’s doing to you here, in front of everyone. You hope that’s the case; it won’t stop Sukuna either way.

His fingers drag as they leave you. A promise that he’s not done with you yet.

You hear fabric rustling behind you and squeeze your eyes closed tighter. Oh, you are going to be ruined if he doesn’t stop, you’re far too sensitive. He can’t, he can’t. No, no, no, no no no…

“Keep your voice down,” he reminds, sounding amused, “unless you want this festival to end in a massacre.”

He hums contemplatively as he lifts you. Just enough to notch the flared, leaking head of a cock at your entrance.

“Maybe it should,” he muses. You sink down as quickly as you dare, knowing you’ll forget yourself if he draws it out. “My shika-hime gets so wet for her king spilling blood, doesn’t she?”

His cock pulses. Without even moving, he’s pressing against every sweet spot inside you, making your cunt hug tight around every vein and ridge. You’re already well on your way to another orgasm.

“Sukuna,” you whine quietly, tucking your face against his neck, “d-don’t say things like that.”

“You dare order your king?” He sounds horrifically delighted. His finger begins tap-tap-tapping, like it does when he’s annoyed, except he strikes your clit every time. “I ought to punish you for your insolence.”

Punishment is no bluffing matter - so why does it make you clench down so tight that even Sukuna groans?

“You’re not allowed to come again until I give you permission.”

Knowing him, that may not be for the rest of the night. Your stomach tightens. He keeps drumming his finger against your tingling bud.

“I-if I do…?” you venture.

The sadistic grin that curls his mouth nearly sends you over the edge right then. Why is that so attractive? Anyone else - anyone with sense - would be terrified. Or at least not aroused by their own terror.

“You’ll become the entertainment,” he answers, greed and anticipation thick in his voice, “I’ll let them live just long enough to see you break on both my cocks. And then I’ll fuck you in the lake of blood left behind.”

You believe it. Sukuna doesn’t make threats; he makes declarations.

“Y-Yes, my king,” you gasp, digging nails into your palm.

He hums, deep and raspy. “Keep behaving, perhaps I will let you come. Eventually.”

His finger starts spiraling over your clit again.

You manage to hold on just long enough for him to demand you finish, so that he can feel your pussy strangling his cock.

He still kills a handful of nosy onlookers, but you’re too blissed out to notice.

The year turns over. You’ve grown used to the feeling of Sukuna touching you, always. Whether it’s just a hand on the back of your neck, or his entire hulking body flattening you against the nearest surface. You learn the pattern of his breathing in the morning. Find a new fascination with the silky fall of that sakura-pink hair.

More rings of vicious teeth begin to decorate your skin. Bruises speckle the canvas of your flesh like stars. The slight ache between your thighs is ever-present but you never quite become accustomed to the exhilarating stretch of his cock.

That doesn’t stop you from being tempted by the promise of both.

When you bashfully approach them, his harem is kind enough to offer their collective wisdom. They sit you down in the library with scrolls illustrating positions, adding their own experienced advice to the diagrams. You’re pleasantly surprised by how quick they are to aid you; you hope it’s not entirely due to the incident with Lady Katsumi.

“Shikako-san is very brave,” one of them compliments, squeezing your arm. (You don’t fail to notice how she carefully avoids the markings on your wrist.)

You don’t really get it, but you smile at her anyway.

Later that evening, when you pause your usual reading to nervously admit to your little tutoring session, Sukuna practically coos. He bends you over the couch right there and introduces your tight, untouched hole to the pleasures of a skilled tongue. And then a finger, rubbing his own cock through the thin membrane separating your clenching channels.

The next time they visit, several of the concubines thank you. For what? You have no idea, but you’re happy that they’re happy.

As the weather warms, Sukuna makes good on his promise to teach you archery. You’re abysmal at it the first few times you try, owing to his teaching method. That is to say, pressing himself tight to your back and adjusting your technique by hand. It doesn’t help that you’re so unexpectedly turned on by the pitch of his “teaching” voice and the sternness of his touch.

The hard bulge that always presses against your back assures you that he’s not unaffected either.

Alas, that doesn’t stop him from mocking your difficulties learning. Luckily (and much to his glee) you become quite responsive to his condescension as well. Especially when he ends each lesson balls deep inside you, an arm or hand around your throat.

With the turn of the season, your nightly reading rituals evolve as well. Sometimes, Sukuna picks up where you left off the previous evening, making use of his mouth while yours is stuffed full of cock. He seems disproportionately amused that you insist on swallowing his spend, unwilling to risk stains on the books. (You think you’d faint from humiliation if you saw them noted in one your assistants’ catalog descriptions.)

You’re delighted when the koi pond finally thaws, revealing the graceful sway of fins and scales you’ve been missing. Sukuna indulges you every time you ask to visit, sprawled on blankets in the sprouting grass while you lean against the prop of his leg to read.

He takes his reward for his charity one bright evening, a full moon heavy in the sky. The light spills over the ridges and curves of carved muscle, forms a halo behind his head. Deceptively divine.

There’s nothing holy about the hunger in those glowing eyes, the saliva dribbling from the corners of the maw in his stomach. Those cruel hands have wrought enough suffering to make the heavens weep, and that wicked tongue would gorge on the tears.

You don’t long for blunter nails scoring your ass, or gentler teeth nipping your throat. You don’t yearn to escape the rough palms that splay your thighs wide. You arch into every possessive squeeze and press. Welcome his brutal cock into your aching pussy with moans that echo only pleasure.

You twist and shake with each impatient finger that stretches your other hole, pacified by the hand rolling your clit in distracting circles. You don’t need him to speak, don’t need sweet platitudes or honeyed encouragement, when the savage growls bubbling from his chest are praise enough.

When Sukuna finally tilts back to line his cocks up with a hole each, you can only brace, knowing you’re not nearly prepared enough, regardless of any physical pain you may feel.

Your mind whites out as both heads press, press, press - and pop past resistance. Babble spills from your gaping mouth, half-words and raw little “ah” sounds, loud and uninhibited. His fingers rub across your lolling tongue, the flavor of slick is cloying; you can taste your own desperation.

He half-thrusts once, twice, gaging. Then finally forces himself as deep as he can go, carving a space inside you. Delirious, you think there must be some sort of cursed technique at play here, because the human body simply can’t be built to take him. If your cervix were an obstacle, he’s easily surpassed it.

You feel conquered, owned, possessed. The bands around your wrist tingle. He twists his head to mouth at them and (completely unrelated, you’re sure) your eyes water. A reedy little “please” slips from your lips.

Sukuna draws back and slams home again without restraint.

He’s going to break you.

“I’ll put you back together,” he breathes, only just audible over the obscene, wet noises of your coupling. “Just like before.”

You nod like a puppet on a string, wrapping your legs tight around his waist. He hunches over you, two arms beneath your shoulders to keep you from sliding up the blanket. Forcing you to stay, to take it. Between the panting and the slap of skin and the crescendo of ecstasy rushing in your ears, you hear him.

“Mine,” he rasps, snarling and savage, “not permitted to die… you’ll stay mine… by my side...”

You whimper, “Yes, yes, yes! My king… ‘Kuna.”

At the next festival, a curse corners you on your way to check on your assistants.

“You’re just a human,” it burbles. Spindly, lecherous hands paw at the air as it draws closer. “He won’t miss one human, one servant…”

You snort, snapping your fan open to wave away the putrid stench of it.

“I’m not a servant,” you correct, as the curse is spontaneously diced into neat cubes. “I’m the shikako.”

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