✦ ─── 𖥔・✧・𖥔 ─── ✦

Ryomen Sukuna had seen the world from beneath the corpses of kings. No village, shrine, or holy man could stop him. He walked barefoot through fire and emerged cleaner than priests, his four arms soaked in the blood of armies. So when they dragged her out before him—trembling, veiled, offered like a final prayer—he only tilted his head.

She didn’t scream. Didn’t sob. Her eyes, though wide, didn’t shake when they met his. There was no fake reverence or pathetic bow. Only quiet defiance. Quiet warmth. Something too soft for a world like this, and far too soft for him.

He ordered her untied, and when they hesitated, two of them lost their heads. She was handed over like a lamb, but she stood taller than most of the generals he’d torn down. Sukuna didn’t understand why he let her speak, or why her voice calmed the thing that always howled beneath his ribs.

But by nightfall, she was wrapped in his robes and asleep in his palace, tucked beside him in a bed no one had ever shared before. And he, the four-armed demon of legend, sat awake and watched her breathe like she might vanish.

She did not vanish. And she never would. ✦ ─── 𖥔・✧・𖥔 ─── ✦

Sukuna did not marry for politics, land, or legacy. He married because the thought of her name belonging to anyone else made his vision blur with rage. He married because she touched his lower left hand when she thought he wasn’t looking. Because she spoke his name like it was human.

The wedding was not grand. No gold. No kings. Just fire, moonlight, and the bodies of a few remaining objectors. She wore white, not because she was expected to, but because she said it would look best stained with his blood if he ever betrayed her. He laughed so loud it startled the guards outside.

From that night on, no one questioned her place at his side. She dined beside him, bathed with him, slept wrapped in the weight of four arms and a thousand unsaid devotions. The palace changed. Softer light. Carpets. Candles. He let her leave flowers in rooms meant for war councils.

And Sukuna, Ryomen the Terrible, began to smile. Just a little. Just for her.

He kissed her in front of generals and dared them to look away. None of them did. ✦ ─── 𖥔・✧・𖥔 ─── ✦

It began, as most dangerous things do, with a smirk.

She came into his chamber at dusk, dressed in something absolutely not of this era—a velvet black strapless thing with long fishnet stockings and bunny ears perched atop her head. Her hips swayed when she walked, and her heels clicked like a challenge across polished stone. He’d seen her naked more times than he could count, but this? This made him sit up like a man possessed.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stared. Four glowing eyes dragging over every inch of her body like they were tasting her already. And she, bold little bride, only gave a twirl and said something about “entertainment.” Sukuna, the strongest curse alive, very nearly whimpered.

She couldn’t take three steps past him before he grabbed her. Two arms around her waist. One lifting her thigh. The other unfastening that useless little tail. He didn’t let her wear that outfit again—because he ripped it to shreds.

But he kept the ears. They hung above their bed like a trophy. ✦ ─── 𖥔・✧・𖥔 ─── ✦

She wore it at breakfast.

Frilly, tight, and so absurdly short it should’ve been a sin. She bent to pour tea and called him Master, and he choked on his food. Her giggle was light, but her eyes told him she knew exactly what she was doing.

By mid-morning, he couldn’t concentrate. His council sat confused as he shifted in his seat, sweat lining his brow, gaze flicking to the doorway every few seconds in anticipation of more torment. When she finally appeared again, holding a feather duster and licking something sticky from her finger, he snapped.

She didn’t get a single room cleaned that day. Not one. But the hallway wall still has a dent from where he braced her.

She never used that feather duster for dusting again. He never let her say Master in public after that. ✦ ─── 𖥔・✧・𖥔 ─── ✦

He nearly died.

Not in battle. Not from poison or war. From the sight of her, crawling into the throne room in soft little paws and a bell that jingled with every sway of her hips. Her ears twitched when he stood. Her voice purred when she asked if he’d been “a good boy.”

He wasn’t. And never would be.

He lifted her onto the table. Pushed everything aside like it was beneath her. Four hands gripping, spreading, worshiping. He buried his face between her thighs and didn’t come up for air until her legs were shaking and her bell had gone silent.

The next day, there was a cat on her pillow. Pale white, sweet-tempered. He called it hers and let no one else feed it. That afternoon, he began planting.

A full garden bloomed within weeks, filled with flowers she loved and benches he built with his bare hands.

When she asked him why, he only growled, “Because you let me taste the sun.” ✦ ─── 𖥔・✧・𖥔 ─── ✦

The palace was quiet when he returned. Too quiet.

He knew something was coming. He could feel her. That familiar sweetness in the air—vanilla and mischief. But nothing could have prepared him for the sight that waited when he opened the door to their chamber.

She was already there.

Face down. Back arched. Wings splayed over her shoulders like she'd just fallen from the sky. A long, pointed tail curled lazily around one thigh. Her legs were spread wide on their shared bed, soft and inviting, her head turned away from the door like she didn’t even care who saw her.

He did not move for a full minute.

“You little devil,” he whispered, two mouths trembling. “Do you even know what you’ve done to me?”