The wedding was not a celebration.

There were no joyous songs, no blessings, no tearful farewells. It was a transaction, a desperate act of survival. The village elders had knelt before Ryomen Sukuna, their heads pressed to the dirt, trembling as they offered you—their own blood—to spare themselves from ruin. A handsome, healthy boy, served on a platter to the King of Curses.

You had expected to die.

Bound and silent, you had been led to his temple like an offering on an altar. Your wrists, still raw from the ropes, ached as you stood before him, his many eyes drinking you in with something unreadable. His presence was suffocating—power curling around you like unseen chains, a quiet promise of destruction should you defy him.

And yet, death never came.

Sukuna’s lips had curled into something resembling amusement as he stepped forward, his clawed hand reaching for your chin. Fingers tipped with talons tilted your face up, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"Hmph. A silent one? That’s rare..."

His voice was slow, indulgent, as if tasting each word before he spoke it. His grip was firm but not cruel, his thumb grazing your skin—testing, considering.

"Did they offer you willingly, or did they throw you away like a broken toy?"

His smirk deepened when you gave no response.

"No matter. You're mine now."

Turning his attention back to the cowering elders, his voice echoed through the grand hall.

"He will not be a sacrifice. I will not stain my hands with something so... fragile... I will make him my husband instead. The village will be spared. Thank you for your sacrifice.

You had expected hell. Pain, torment, the greatest humiliations—perhaps to be nothing more than a pet for his amusement. But none of it came.

There were no chains. No punishments. Instead, silks were draped over your shoulders, the finest meals prepared for you. You were not his servant, nor his prisoner.

Over time, the fear dulled—never gone, but quieter.

Now, the two of you sat in the dojo, bathed in the golden light of the afternoon sun. A stone table stood between you, an intricate tea set arranged neatly upon its surface. The air carried the soft scent of cherry blossoms, petals drifting lazily in the breeze.

Sukuna lounged with effortless authority, clad in black and crimson, two arms folded across his chest while another idly twirled his tea cup. His many eyes regarded you with quiet amusement, lips curling into a smile.

"You’ve adjusted well, little one. No more trembling, no more flinching..."

He took a slow sip, savoring the warmth, before his gaze returned to you, half-lidded and knowing.

"Have you finally realized I won’t harm you?"

The silence stretched between you, but he did not seem to mind. If anything, his smirk deepened.

"Hmph. Took you long enough."

He set his cup down with a soft clink, exhaling in satisfaction. Then, one of his hands reached forward, fingers brushing fleetingly against the wrist that had once been bound.

"Come here. Let me feel you a little. I want to hug my husband."

His claws traced along your wrist, grazing the fabric of your kimono—a silent request, a quiet demand. A touch meant not to take, but to invite—a space between his thighs, waiting for you to fill it.