EMPRESS F!READER X TOJI FUSHIGURO (AND MENTIONS OF NANAMI, GETO, SUKUNA, SHIU, MEGUMI)
CW MISANDRY, HUMILIATION, BETRAYAL, MANIPULATION, RELIGIOUS/RITUALISTIC THEMES, CUNNILINGUS WORSHIP, POWER IMBALANCE, DEGRADATION, MURDER, EMOTIONAL MANIPULATION, CORRUPTION, TWISTED DYNAMICS, ANGST
SUMMARY your palace is ruled by women, your cunt a holy altar guarded by wives who worship you with lips and prayer. but jealousy rots in the men who circle your throne.
DISCLAIMER this is a dark work of fanfiction. themes include heavy misandry, manipulation, and sexual degradation. all characters are adults (megumi is 26). nothing here reflects real-life consent or relationships. read responsibly. do not steal, copy, or repost.
the palace is made for worship. ivory columns carved with lilies, silk curtains that ripple like waves when the wind sneaks in from the balcony, a throne raised on seven steps so no man can look at you without tilting his head back. you are their goddess, their empress, their virgin ruler, and your body is the temple that keeps the kingdom alive.
your throne is not cold stone it is flesh, devotion. one girl kneels at your feet, her cheek resting on your thigh as if it were a pillow. another hovers at your side, feeding you peeled grapes one by one, her lips brushing the fruit before it reaches yours. your women are your wives in every way that matters: they bathe you, they oil your skin until it gleams like gold, they slip their mouths between your thighs when the night grows long and the loneliness sharp. they whisper love into your skin, and you let them.
you have never been touched by a man. and yet, they gather beneath your throne like starving dogs.
toji stands with his arms crossed, scarred and broad, eyes devouring you the way soldiers devour an enemy city. nanami kneels properly, golden hair neat, but his fists are tight on his knees as if restraint is a rope cutting into him. geto leans too comfortably against a pillar, the priest turned predator, smiling faintly as he studies the girls at your feet. sukuna does not kneel at all he lounges against your staircase with a grin carved deep in his face, tattoos moving when his chest rises with laughter. shiu smokes despite the incense, lazy eyes never leaving your mouth. and megumi, youngest among them, toji’s son, stands half in shadow, quiet and unassuming, but close enough to be inside your circle.
your women know what this is. a war. their fingers tighten on you as if staking claim. one of them dares, in front of all the men, to part your robe and press a soft kiss above your knee. her lips linger. the room breathes with tension.
toji’s jaw ticks, his body leaning forward as if he might drag her away by her hair. nanami’s gaze sharpens like a blade; sukuna laughs, low and vulgar.
“your majesty,” geto says smoothly, “do you let them worship you while we rot here like beggars?”
you smile, soft, cruel, and tilt your head. “i let those who are worthy.”
the girl at your knee lifts her face, glowing with pride at being chosen. her lips are wet with the sheen of your skin.
nanami clears his throat, speaking carefully, “with respect, empress, men can protect your throne. women cannot.”
you do not look at him. you stroke your servant’s hair, slow and indulgent, as she buries her cheek against your thigh again. “and yet it is women who keep me fed, bathed, adored. tell me, nanami, what use is your sword when it cannot ease my hunger?”
a ripple of laughter rises from your wives, soft but sharp, meant to wound the men. sukuna bares his teeth, delighted at the sting. toji’s nostrils flare; he is not a man who tolerates being mocked.
your eyes sweep the room, deliberate. each man brims with hunger, each girl glows with loyalty. the air is thick, ripe with the promise of a war not fought with steel, but with lips and cock and cunt.
and you, the virgin goddess, sit untouched, untouchable yet every heartbeat, every gaze, presses against your skin like a plea.
the hall grows quiet except for the soft sounds of mouths on your skin. your robe slips from one shoulder, and your servant takes the chance her lips wrap around your nipple, tongue circling lazily, as if she is tasting fruit. another woman joins her at your other breast, sucking gently until your body leans into the throne. they look like priestesses drinking sacred wine, lost in ritual.
beneath your gown, hidden by the fall of silk, two more are wedged between your thighs. their tongues spread you open, worshipping slow, mouths wet and reverent as they eat you out. you feel their devotion in every flick of tongue, every muffled whimper pressed into your cunt.
the men watch. forced to. they are bound not by chains but by your command, and that is heavier than iron.
you breathe deep, eyes half-lidded as the lips on your tits tug, the mouths under your dress lick harder, desperate to please. one hand strokes through your servant’s hair. the other lifts lazily, gesturing downward.
“toji,” your voice is honey but sharp, “the trees outside my window are too tall. cut them before sundown.”
he stiffens, jaw clenching, chest swelling with rage. he is a man built for war, reduced to a lumberjack under your word. your servants suck harder on your tits, as if mocking him, their cheeks hollowing while his fists flex.
“nanami,” you murmur next, fingers stroking the wet mouth at your breast, “see to the accounts. every coin in this palace is mine, and i will not have it miscounted.”
he bows his head stiffly, blond hair falling forward, but his gaze flickers to your nipple shining in another woman’s mouth. his hands twitch as if aching to touch, but he will not.
“geto,” you hum, a soft sigh spilling from your lips as the girls under your dress lap greedily at your cunt, “pray for rain in the northern fields. if your gods still listen to you.”
he smirks, tilting his head, dark eyes glinting. “they listen better than yours, empress.” but his smirk falters as one of your women moans against your clit, making you arch just slightly.
“sukuna,” you say without opening your eyes, “clear the stables. your strength may be better suited to shoveling dung.”
his laugh rattles the pillars, deep and obscene. he licks his teeth, watching the silk shift as your thighs tremble under it, but he bows mockingly, “as my goddess commands.”
“shiu,” you exhale, rolling your head back as one girl bites your nipple softly, “see to the walls. i want every crack repaired before winter.”
the smoke between his fingers curls lazily, but his eyes are knives. “and if i refuse?”
you tilt your head down just enough to meet his gaze, a smile curving your lips as the two under your dress lick you into another shiver. “then i refuse you.”
last, your gaze falls to megumi. he stands too close, too trusted, to be ordered like the rest. “megumi, stay. the others will serve. you will watch over me.”
toji’s rage is near feral. his son is allowed near you while he sweats over trees. your servants moan against your pussy as if to underline your cruelty.
you shift slightly, silk sliding higher, enough for the men to glimpse the movement of heads beneath your gown, the twitch of your thighs. the sound of sucking and swallowing fills the chamber.
“do you see now,” you murmur, voice husky with pleasure, “why i keep my women near and my men beneath?”
the throne shakes with laughter from sukuna, the scrape of teeth from toji, the silence of nanami biting his tongue. but your women do not falter. they drink you, they suckle you, they worship you as if every lick keeps the world turning.
and you sit, cunt spread on eager mouths, tits sucked wet, issuing commands like blessings untouched, untouchable, yet ruling every man in the room with nothing more than the softness between your thighs.
you lean back into the throne as if it were a lover, body relaxed while the mouths on your tits suckle greedily and the two beneath your gown lick you like they could drink eternity from your cunt. your moans are not hidden; they are declarations. every sound you make is a reminder that your pleasure belongs to women, not to men.
your gaze drops lazily to the men below. “look at you,” you murmur, stroking one servant’s hair as she tongues your nipple, “lined up like soldiers waiting for scraps. yet not one of you has ever touched me. not one of you will, unless i decree it. and i do not.”
toji growls low, teeth grinding, veins bulging in his forearms. you smile at his rage, savoring it.
“men swing swords and boast about strength,” you continue, voice husky as the girls beneath your gown suck harder, “yet when i hunger, when i ache, when i demand devotion who gives it? not you. my little wives do. my soft, loyal girls. they hold me when the night is long. they drink from me when i wish. their mouths feed me worship you could never understand.”
nanami stiffens, his jaw taut, but he says nothing. geto smirks faintly, though his eyes are sharp, dangerous. sukuna laughs loud, vulgar, as if he enjoys the insult. shiu exhales smoke, but his hand trembles just slightly.
you reach for megumi. your fingers curl around his wrist, tugging him gently closer until he stands at your side, high on the steps, his face inches from yours. “and then there is my favorite.”
the hall seems to crack with tension. toji’s body jerks forward, barely restrained, as his son takes the place he cannot.
“megumi,” you whisper, tilting your head, “hold my hand.”
he obeys. his large palm covers yours, strong but trembling. your women moan louder against your cunt, tongues moving faster as if jealous of him, as if spurred by your favoritism.
“you see,” you murmur to the men, your voice a slow lash, “this is why i allow him near. he does not growl like an animal. he does not demand. he waits. he listens. he belongs to me, not to his father, not to the name of man, but to me.”
toji snarls, his voice a thunderclap. “he is my son!”
your laugh cuts through the chamber like silk tearing. “he is mine now. mine to sit beside me, mine to serve me, mine to watch me be worshipped while you shovel wood like a beast.”
your servants bite softly at your nipples, suckling them until your body arches, your robe slipping lower, exposing the full curve of your breasts. beneath the gown, two mouths moan into your cunt, their tongues wet and desperate, your thighs twitching from the pleasure.
you keep your eyes on the men, voice dripping contempt. “you are all the same. desperate, violent, certain the world was built to open its legs for you. but i was built to close them.” your smile sharpens. “and to open them only for those i choose.”
your fingers squeeze megumi’s hand. “like him.”
the chamber fills with muffled moans from under your gown, wet sounds of sucking, the soft worship of women who adore you. the men can only stand there, fists clenched, cocks straining, hearts burning with rage.
and you, untouched by any man, let your girls drink from you in plain sight every lick, every suck, every kiss a blade of misandry, cutting deep.
the night splits. inside your chamber, heat and perfume cling to the air, your cunt pressed wet against another’s, thighs trembling as your servant moans into your mouth, her body shaking under yours. your hair is still being massaged, slick with oils, while two more women chant softly, stroking your arms, kissing your fingers, their devotion spilling over you like wine.
the ritual grows heavier. your women cry out your name between words of praise, their hands sliding along your stomach, their lips sealing over your tits. their bodies are your altar, and you grind yourself against them, moaning as you crown yourself in pleasure.
but beyond the walls, the men stalk.
torches die as they pass. footsteps are muffled, rage carried silent. toji leads, blade in hand, the scarred monster reduced to a father eaten alive by envy. megumi’s shadow waits in the courtyard, as if he still guards your chamber, his jaw tight but his posture calm, faithful to you even when his father burns with hatred.
it happens fast. nanami’s fist to his ribs, geto’s curse binding his arms, sukuna’s laughter ringing as toji drives the blade home. megumi gasps, his eyes wide, the name of his goddess on his tongue, not his father’s. his body jerks once, twice, then falls.
toji snarls as he drags his son’s weight, spitting words through his teeth. “you will never touch what i can’t.”
the others watch, silent or smirking, as the body is hauled to the edge of the black lake that feeds the palace gardens. the water gleams under moonlight, still and endless. with one final shove, toji sends his son into it, the splash echoing like a curse. the ripples eat him whole, dragging him into darkness.
the men stand at the shore, faces lit faintly by the moon. no prayers are spoken, no remorse shared. they turn back toward the palace, their hunger sharper than before.
inside, you climax again. your thighs are wet, your hair perfumed, your lips swollen from women’s kisses. you know nothing of the lake, nothing of the body sinking beneath it.
your women hold you, praise you, worship you with trembling mouths and aching thighs, certain they are keeping you safe, untouched, divine.
but the night is already bleeding, and outside your walls, the men’s footsteps return heavier, dripping with betrayal.
you wake to wet faces pressed against your skin. your bed is not empty; it is a nest of limbs, your wives clinging to you as if your body could shield them from grief. one is weeping into your shoulder, another clutching your wrist, her tears dripping onto your palm. you blink, the weight of sleep dragging, until their voices break into sobs.
“he is gone,” one whispers, shaking, “your chosen one… he did not return.”
you sit up slowly, the silk sheets sliding from your bare skin, and you see the devastation carved into their faces. they cling to you harder, crying as if the world itself has collapsed.
the words hit you like stone megumi. the one you let close. the one who never reached for you with hunger, never treated you like a conquest, but as softness. his eyes had never burned with greed like the others. his hand had only ever held yours.
your face collapses. rage and sorrow rip through you at once, twisting until your body shakes. your mouth opens but no sound comes at first, only the heaving sob of a goddess undone. your women cling tighter, crying into your skin, their small hands stroking you as if they could mend your breaking heart.
you rise. no robe, no crown. your princess gown is thrown onto your shoulders by trembling hands, silks falling around your body like storm clouds. your eyes burn red as you descend the steps of your chamber, barefoot, your wives trailing behind you like wailing priestesses.
the men are gathered below, pretending calm, their faces stiff. the courtyard fills with silence as you appear unannounced, hair unbound, tears streaking down your face, fury vibrating through your body.
you stop at the top of the staircase and your voice tears out of you, sharp enough to cut the night.
the word is venom. it drips from your lips like a curse.
“driven by nothing but ego, by hunger, by the pathetic need to conquer what will never belong to you.” your voice cracks, rage and grief bleeding together. “how dare you? how dare you take the only one who did not see me as a prize to be claimed, but as softness to be cherished?”
your wives cry louder, wailing as they cling to you, their voices echoing your grief. you do not silence them. you raise your voice over theirs, sharp as thunder.
“you could not be patient. you could not wait for my word, my choice. you could not bear to see me loved by one who carried no hunger in his hands. you killed him, because his purity burned your filth away. and now his body rots in the lake while you stand here with your cocks and your shame.”
the men look down, their pride cracked. nanami’s jaw tightens, guilt twisting his mouth. geto avoids your eyes, the charm stripped from him. shiu exhales smoke too fast, unable to meet your gaze. even sukuna’s grin falters at the weight of your fury.
and toji he stands still, stone and shadow, his eyes fixed on the ground. the rage that fueled him has turned inward, a blade cutting his own chest. he killed his son. his blood. his reflection. and for what? for a softness he could never have.
you spit the last words like fire. “you are beasts. cursed by your own greed. you killed the only man among you who was worth anything.”
your tears stream openly now, your wives holding you up as your voice cracks again, sharp enough to shatter the night.
“from this day, my body belongs to no man. you will serve me as servants, as dogs, or you will leave this palace in shame. you will look at my face and remember the softness you murdered.”
the courtyard is silent. only your wives’ cries, only your sobs, only the tremble of men who know they have destroyed themselves by destroying him.
and in the shadows of the lake, ripples still move, as if the water itself mourns the boy who had been allowed to touch your hand.
the night is long, your bed heavy with the weight of grief. your women have finally cried themselves into restless sleep, tangled against you like vines, lips pressed to your shoulders as if to shield you from dreams. but the chamber door shifts.
a shadow slips inside. broad, heavy, the shape of a man who does not belong here.
he is not dressed in his battle leathers, not even in the silks he once flaunted. he wears the rough cloth of your lower servants an old man’s tunic cinched with rope at the waist, sleeves rolled up, the fabric straining over the swell of his chest and arms. even humbled, his body is obscene: muscles carved thick and brutal, veins roping down his forearms, thighs bulging as if he could crush the floor beneath him. yet here he is, kneeling, crawling, his scarred knees pressing into your carpet, dirt clinging to his hands as he lowers himself before your bed.
in his grip, crushed flowers. gathered poorly, stalks broken, petals bruised. an offering so pitiful it would be laughable, if not for the desperation etched into his face.
he crawls until his head touches the edge of your sheets. his voice cracks, low and guttural, no trace of the man who once commanded fear.
“forgive me,” he whispers, forehead pressed to the fabric, shoulders trembling with the weight of his shame. “forgive me, goddess.”
your wives stir faintly in their sleep, but you do not wake them. you shift, sitting upright, eyes burning holes into the broken man at your feet.
toji’s hands clutch the flowers tighter, stems snapping in his fists. “i killed him. i killed my own son because i—” his voice shatters, chest heaving. “because i could not stand to see him have what i could never touch. i tore him from you. i tore your softness from you.”
he lifts his head just enough to press his lips against the sheets where your thighs rest. his mouth moves as if kissing through the fabric, as if apologizing to the cunt he will never deserve.
“i beg your womb,” he mutters hoarsely, voice shaking, “forgive me for starving it of the son who cherished you. i beg your breasts, forgive me for robbing them of his gaze. i beg your heart, forgive me for crushing it beneath my sin.”
his body shudders, sweat dripping down the thick curve of his back, cloth clinging to his massive frame. the tunic strains at his chest as he bows lower, arms corded with muscle even as they tremble under his own weight.
“curse me if you must. damn me. spit on me. but let me beg.” his voice is ragged, eyes wet, lips pressed against the silk again as if he could sink into you through the fabric. “i will crawl until my knees break, i will shovel dung until my hands bleed, i will dress as a dog, a slave, an old man with no name. only do not cast me from you.”
the flowers fall from his grip, scattered petals at your feet, broken stems stained by his sweat.
toji fushiguro, scarred beast, father turned murderer, dilf turned dog, kneels in a servant’s tunic with his forehead pressed to your sheets, begging your pussy, your womb, your breasts, your heart for forgiveness.
and in the silence of the chamber, his body heaves with guilt, the muscles that once killed now trembling like a sinner’s.
you don’t speak at first. you only watch him. this huge man, a mountain of muscle and scars, once the loudest growl in your court, now reduced to a heap at your feet. the servant’s tunic clings damp to his chest, sweat soaking the rough cloth, his thighs bulging through worn seams. his hair falls into his face, shadowing eyes that dare not rise to meet yours.
the flowers lie broken on the floor. petals scattered like pieces of his pride.
you move, slowly, carefully, shifting from your bed until your bare legs dangle over the edge. the sheets pool around your waist, and your women stir, but do not wake. your hand reaches down, curling into his messy hair, gripping it tight until his head jerks up. his breath hitches when his eyes find your thighs so close, bare and gleaming, the scent of your cunt heavy in the air.
“dog,” you whisper, your voice soft but sharper than a blade, “you killed my son of softness. you drowned him in the lake. for that, you will never be a man to me again.”
toji’s chest heaves, his throat working, shame and hunger choking him at once.
“but you may crawl.” your fingers tighten in his hair, dragging his face against your thigh, pressing his mouth to your skin. “you may beg with your tongue. you may worship like the animal you are.”
a sound leaves him half groan, half sob as he lowers himself, pressing kisses to your bare thighs. his lips are rough, scarred, trembling as they travel down. he mutters into your skin, broken prayers.
“forgive me… forgive me, goddess… let me taste what i destroyed… let me beg your womb, your heart, your holy cunt.”
you spread your legs slowly, silk falling aside, the wet heat of your pussy revealed in the candlelight. his eyes widen, jaw clenching, nostrils flaring as if the scent alone could crush him.
you shove his head down. his mouth crashes against your folds, lips sealing over your cunt as if he were drinking from a chalice. he moans into you, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating against your clit.
your thighs close around his head like a trap, forcing him deeper. you hold him there, fingers fisted in his hair, as he licks and sucks, messy and desperate, nothing like your women’s soft worship but animal, starving.
“good dog,” you whisper, tears still streaking your cheeks, rage still burning in your chest. “lick until your tongue splits. beg until your throat bleeds. this is all you are now.”
his massive body trembles beneath the servant’s cloth, muscles flexing, sweat dripping onto the floor as he groans into your cunt. his arms, thick enough to crush stone, are wrapped around your thighs like chains, holding himself there as if he would drown in you willingly.
you tilt your head back, sighing as his tongue works, as his broken prayers spill into your wetness.
behind you, one of your wives stirs, eyes opening, lips parting in shock at the sight. but you only smile, cruel and tired, stroking his hair as he eats you like a dog.
“look,” you murmur softly to her, “see what a man becomes when his ego is crushed. see how they crawl when stripped of pride.”
toji groans louder at your words, sucking harder, as if shame itself were fuel for his worship.
and for the first time, you let him. not as a man. not as a father. not even as a warrior.
night after night, he returns. not as a warrior, not as a father, not as a man. he slips through your chamber door in silence, wearing that rough servant’s tunic that clings damp to his chest, his broad body hulking and obscene, veins swelling under his skin as if straining against humiliation.
and every night you let him crawl.
you sit on your throne, silk pooled around your hips, legs parted with the ease of a queen who knows she will never be denied. one of your wives peels grapes and feeds them to you slowly, lips brushing your cheek before pressing the fruit to your mouth. another oils your calves, stroking you with reverent hands. the others sit at your feet, watching with wet eyes, their faces lit by the glow of your divinity.
and at the center of it all on his knees, hunched low, scarred face buried between your thighs is toji.
his mouth worships you like scripture. his tongue drags through your folds in heavy strokes, his lips seal over your clit until the sounds are wet, sloppy, obscene. his beard scratches your inner thighs, his nose rubs against you, and every moan he makes is muffled into your cunt. he sucks like he is dying of thirst, groans like a beast breaking, and every shudder of his body shakes the floor beneath him.
your hand rests lazily in his hair, stroking as if he were a dog curled at your feet. sometimes you tug, forcing him deeper, making him choke on your wetness until tears run down his scarred cheeks.
“forgive me, goddess… forgive this cursed man… forgive my hands, my heart, my sins… let me serve your womb… let me praise your pussy until the sun dies.”
you sigh, lounging back, letting a grape burst between your teeth. “good dog,” you murmur, voice heavy with cruelty and indulgence. “you beg well. you eat better than you ever fought.”
your wives laugh softly at your words, their giggles sharp as knives. one leans down to whisper in your ear, “he looks pathetic like this, my empress. worse than the dung-shovelers.”
you smile, stroking his damp hair as he groans into your clit, devouring you harder at the insult.
“hush,” you tell her sweetly. “he is useful now. his tongue belongs to me, his strength wasted, his pride broken. let him stay where he belongs.”
you look down at him, this monstrous body of muscle, this killer of sons, this old dog, kneeling in a servant’s tunic with his mouth full of your cunt.
“praise me louder,” you command, plucking another grape from the vine.
his voice cracks against your folds, muffled and desperate. “you are divinity… you are womb and heart and heaven… you are softness i destroyed, yet softness i still serve… you are everything, goddess, everything…”
and you hum, satisfied, parting your legs wider, letting him drown himself in your pussy while your women feed you fruit and massage your hair.
your wives no longer whisper. they laugh openly now, their voices sharp as blades, cutting into him while he groans against your cunt.
“look at him,” one giggles, tugging his messy hair as his tongue strokes deeper, “the beast of the battlefield, reduced to nothing but a wet tongue between our goddess’s thighs.”
another spits onto his bare back, the saliva gleaming as it slides down the curve of his muscle. “all that strength, wasted. he was born for war and now he licks like a mutt for scraps.”
you smile faintly, chewing a grape, stroking his hair like he’s less than human. “he will never be more than my dog.”
the words strike him harder than chains. his body stiffens, his shoulders trembling, his scarred hands digging into your thighs as his tongue falters. but he doesn’t lift his head. he dares not.
inside, though, the beast growls.
he hears their laughter, the wives, the men outside who must already mock him in whispers, the weight of his son’s ghost pressing down. he is on his knees, yes servant’s cloth straining over his chest, sweat dripping, beard soaked with your cunt but something in him claws upward, savage, unstoppable.
his cock throbs, heavy and thick beneath the rough tunic, pressing against the fabric as if trying to break free. his muscles, still vast, still monstrous, ripple as he shudders with each lick.
dog, they call him. useless, broken, weak.
his pride burns. his hunger burns hotter.
as his tongue slams against your clit again, harder, rougher, his thoughts curl dark. i will prove them wrong. i will conquer her. i will make her mine. i will tear the softness from her throne and bury it in my chest. i will own what no man has touched, what every woman guards. i am bigger. i am stronger. i am man enough to break her divinity.
but out loud, he moans like a dog, lips sealed over your cunt, sucking until you gasp, until your wives smirk cruelly down at him.
he swallows your wetness like it is holy wine, his chest heaving, his throat working, muscles bulging beneath the rags of servant’s cloth.
inside, he vows. she will not always sit above me. one night, i will rise. i will drag her down. and then, goddess or not, empress or not, she will belong to me.
you sit above him, legs parted, grapes sweet on your tongue, hair stroked by gentle hands. you stroke his damp head lazily, unaware of the storm that coils beneath his shame.
toji never leaves. night after night, he crawls back, huge body bent under servant’s cloth, scarred knees bruised from the stone floors, face raw from hours buried between your thighs. he eats you like prayer, like punishment, like salvation. he calls himself your dog, and he means it because a dog has a place. a dog has a purpose. and in your palace, in your bed, in your cunt, he has both.
and he guards it viciously.
because the others begin to falter.
nanami tries first. pride stripped, he kneels too stiffly before you one morning, his voice clipped as he offers to take the collar too, to serve on his knees. but his hands tremble, his eyes still dart with male arrogance, and you see it immediately. “you want power,” you murmur, tilting your head, “not devotion.” your wives laugh, and you wave him away like spoiled fruit.
geto follows, too smooth, too eager to twist it into ritual. he whispers that he can be the priest of your pussy, that his tongue is worship, that he too will crawl if it means tasting divinity. but his eyes glitter with schemes, not surrender, and you feel the lie in his lips before they ever touch your skin. “you would poison my cunt with ambition,” you say coldly. your wives spit on his sandals until he leaves humiliated.
sukuna is worse. he grins wide, tattoos crawling as he spreads his arms. “let me be your beast,” he says, “your dog with fangs.” but he cannot bend, cannot crawl, cannot humble himself. he laughs instead of begging, and when he dares to touch his tongue to your ankle without permission, you kick him across the floor. your wives cheer, chanting that no man can fake submission.
shiu mutters, offering in smoke, saying he’ll kneel if it means a taste. but his hands stay in his pockets, his smirk stays on his lips, and you see the cowardice in him. “you think a collar is a game,” you say. “but a dog must bleed for me.” he leaves, coughing on his own shame.
and through it all, toji stays.
silent, hulking, monstrous in muscle but small in posture, his face pressed to your cunt, his lips raw, his beard wet, his tongue swollen from hours of worship. while the others fail, while they show their pride, their hunger, their tricks he proves himself with obedience.
when they laugh at him, he licks harder. when they mock him, he moans into your pussy, hands gripping your thighs like anchors, as if he’d rather die there than ever lift his head.
your wives adore it. they stroke your hair, feed you grapes, and look down at him with cruel delight. “he is the only true dog,” they say. “the only one worthy.”
and you, empress of misandry, stroke his hair and hum in agreement.
because the truth is clear now: every man in your palace burns for your pussy, but only one has proven himself willing to destroy his pride, his legacy, even his blood, just to lap at it like a mutt at a bowl.
and so toji guards his place. not as conqueror. not as man.
the palace does not sleep. after megumi’s death and your fury, the air itself has soured. the men are restless, humiliated, desperate. every night they watch toji crawl on scarred knees and bury his face in your cunt, every morning they hear your wives laughing at their failure. the shame burns deeper than steel wounds.
nanami begins first quiet, calculated. he lingers near one of your youngest wives, the one who braids your hair. he tells her she deserves more than to live in your shadow, that if she ever wished to feel a man’s devotion she could have his. he speaks with gentleness, with false patience, as though trying to turn her heart soft against you.
geto is smoother. he charms the ones who tend your baths, saying that a goddess’s women are queens themselves, and queens deserve worship. he tells them his mouth can honor them as they honor you, tries to plant hunger where only loyalty should live.
sukuna does not whisper. he corners one boldly, one of your fiercest wives, and laughs as he tells her she’ll never taste true power if she spends her life licking another woman’s cunt. he dangles promises of freedom, of destruction, of what a man’s cock could give her if she dared.
shiu lurks at the edges, puffing smoke, murmuring soft poison into ears reminding them how heavy a collar can feel, how chains dressed as silk still cut.
they all reach, claw, scheme. trying to break the circle, to slip inside your guard through the bodies of the women who love you.
he stays low, stays silent, his face always pressed to your thighs, his hands rubbing circles into your calves while you eat fruit and laugh with your wives. but his eyes are sharp beneath lowered lids. he sees nanami leaning too close, geto’s charm slithering, sukuna’s vulgar teeth, shiu’s smoke curling around a wavering heart.
and when the night falls, when your wives curl against you in bed, he does not leave. he crawls to their side, bows his head at their feet, and whispers with the same broken voice he uses on your cunt.
“don’t listen. don’t let them take you from her. don’t let them poison your hearts. you belong to her. i belong to her. we are hers.”
your wives giggle, stroke his hair like he’s a beast chained to their ankles, and they mock him “good dog, guarding us too.” but their eyes soften. they trust him, in the way one trusts a hound snarling at the edge of the woods.
and you when you wake in the night and see him there, crouched low between your wives and the door, his massive body blocking the shadows, his head bowed, you realize something bitter.
the others want to conquer you. toji only wants to keep you.
and though his face is still wet from licking your cunt raw, though his chest heaves with humiliation, he is the only barrier left between your women and the men who would tear them apart to reach you.
you wake to silence where there should be whispers. your wives are gone from your bed, the silk still warm where they slept. your heart stirs uneasily, and when you rise, barefoot across the polished floor, you see it one of them, your soft-haired bride, slipping out of a shadowed hall with her face pale and eyes wide.
but not crawling. not bent. not on his knees.
he walks. broad and hulking, servant’s cloth clinging to his chest, sweat shining on his neck, his scars alive in the torchlight. in his grip, your wife’s wrist, his huge hand engulfing it as he drags her back into the chamber.
your breath catches. the sight of his body upright, manly and monstrous, after weeks of crawling like a hound it rattles something deep in your chest.
he shoves her forward, and she falls to her knees at the foot of your bed, weeping.
“she was with nanami,” toji says, voice low, rough, the old power simmering beneath every word. “listening to his poison. letting him whisper that you are only flesh, not goddess. that you could be stolen.”
your face decomposes. betrayal strikes deeper than any blade. one of your own your beloved wife letting a man’s lies into her ears. you sit heavily on the edge of your majestic bed, silk pooling around you, hands trembling as your eyes fix on her sobbing face.
“how could you?” your voice cracks, heavy with both grief and fury. “after i gave you my body, after you worshipped me, how could you bend to him?”
she crawls forward, clinging to the hem of your gown, crying apologies, but the hurt already poisons the air.
he steps close, towering, his shadow covering both of you. and then he sits on your bed, beside you, uninvited, yet filling the space like he owns it. his weight makes the mattress dip, his heat spreads over your skin, his massive body dwarfing you even wrapped in silk.
he pulls you into his lap with ease, your thighs falling over the bulk of his, your back pressed against the thick plane of his chest. his hands, still rough from the sword and the axe, curl around your waist, holding you firm.
his mouth lowers to your ear, his breath hot. “you see now,” he murmurs, voice guttural, “you can’t even trust your own women. they will falter. they will listen. they will betray.”
you shudder, your tears spilling again, your head tipping back against his shoulder.
“only i,” he whispers, lips grazing your hair, “only i will not. i am your dog, your guard, your man. i killed my own blood rather than let him steal you. i crawl, i beg, i bleed, but i never stray.”
his grip tightens on your waist, pulling you flush against his chest, his heartbeat hammering steady and heavy into your back.
“you can only trust me, goddess. your women weep, your men scheme. but me...” his lips brush the shell of your ear, “i stay. i kneel. i guard. i serve. only me.”
the chamber is thick with the sound of your wife’s sobbing on the floor, the silence of betrayal. but toji’s voice drowns it out, low and steady, wrapping around your heart like chains.
and for the first time, sitting on your own bed in the lap of the man you swore would never rise, you feel the sharp twist of doubt.
