making up with heian era sukuna after an argument.
The palace bowed to Ryomen Sukuna in fear. But in the inner sanctum beneath the soft canopy of crimson drapes and perfumed air, he bowed only to you.
His favorite. His woman. The others called her concubine. He never did. To him, she was more. His queen without a crown.
You were waiting for him when he entered, seated by the window, moonlight kissing bare skin peeking from your silk robe. You rose slowly, graceful as a dream, and he watched you like he always did. You are the only thing in this cursed world worth worshiping.
“Sukuna,” you greeted, voice soft, but never timid. You two had just finished having a silly argument. You had grown jealous of another concubine. What a foolish move indeed. Your mouth got the better of you before you even realized to think that he was just using her for her intelligence in the neighbouring kingdom.
He didn’t speak. Just closed the distance in three strides, one hand cupping the back of your neck, the other slipping around your waist. He kissed you, slow, consuming, lips brushing like a prayer before he deepened it. You melted into him with a sigh, hands resting on his chest, feeling the weight of power and restraint in his body.
He could break you. But he never would.
He carried you to the bed and laid you down as if you were porcelain. Only then did he speak, voice low, reverent.
You reached for him and he let you untie his robe, let your fingers glide over inked skin and old scars. You touched him like a man, not a god, and that was why he gave you all of him. “Your patience is a virtue i admire the most. What a fool I am.”
He took his time tonight. Sukuna was not a patient man—but with you, he savored.
He kissed down your throat, traced the line of your breasts with his tongue, paused to mouth at the soft skin of her inner thighs. You writhed beneath him, panting, pleading, but he only chuckled, low and dark.
“Beautiful thing. What do you want?”
You didn’t have to ask twice.
He entered your with a slow thrust, groaning as your body welcomed him in. You gasped, fingers curling in the sheets, overwhelmed by the stretch and the heat of him inside you.
Sukuna held your face, kissed you again as he began to move—deep, deliberate, rolling his hips in long strokes meant to drive you mad. He watched you fall apart, drank in every flutter of your lashes, every moan, every desperate whisper of his name.
“You were made for me,” he breathed against your lips. “No one else will ever touch you.”
“No one else could,” she whispered, hips meeting his with growing urgency.
Their bodies moved in perfect rhythm, sweat slicking their skin, hearts thundering in sync. When you came—shaking, gasping—he didn’t stop. He cradled you close, kissed the tears from your cheeks, and fucked you through the aftershocks like he was carving his name into your soul.
When he finally followed you, spilling inside you with a low growl of satisfaction, he stayed buried deep, holding you tightly as if the world might try to steal you away.
“you were jealous.” he said with a tease.
Later, in the silence, your head rested on his chest, listening to the beat of a heart few believed he still had.
He ran a hand through your hair, gently, and murmured the words he never said to anyone else:
“You belong beside me. Not beneath me.”
You smiled, eyes fluttering shut. “But if I were to be your wife, no other nobles would think highly of you.”
His eyes flickered, the unspoken storm of politics, war, and ancient rules behind them but they softened when he looked at you.
“You’ve slept in my bed. Bled beneath my hands. Carried me in your body and in your eyes. And they still dare call you less.”
“You already are my wife,” he said. “Let the world catch up.”
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
