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You spend every day waiting for the other shoe to drop. You had already asked much of him in keeping this liaison secret. That he was willing to compromise for you was a miracle in and of itself. You do not mistake his generosity for kindness. You are well aware that your safety and well-being rely on his goodwill.
You have been Ryomen Sukuna’s mistress for four years. You have been his lover for roughly half of your sons’ lifetimes, and you have shouldered this secret alone for all these years out of fear for their safety. And although the King of Curses, whose power has only grown since he bested your father in combat, is known to sorcerers as cruel and greedy, he cares in some way for the lives of your children. He would not hold his tongue otherwise.
Sukuna is but another reason why twins are considered a bad omen, after all.
For someone whose followers regularly burn your families’ crests, Sukuna goes to greater lengths than he needs to in order to protect you. You’re still amazed that he even wants to defend you at all. He is not exactly wanting for bedmates—and you have to admit that despite the inhumanity of his form, he is still just as handsome as he was when he’d been just a man. You do not dare to believe that you are still someone special to him. You do not dare to hope.
He comes to you under the cover of night, and you learn to recognize his silhouette in front of the screen when the moon is at its highest. You light a lantern by your door when your husband is with his other wives, though Sukuna still comes even without it, an ominous shadow over your slumbering spouse.
Just the barest hint of a threat. Sometimes you wish he would follow through with it, that he would slaughter that man and steal you away with your children to that mountain of his. But that’s just childish fancy.
Some nights, Sukuna is content to lounge with you. His predisposition to getting his hair stroked is exceedingly feline.
That isn’t to say that he doesn’t lay with you. Such intimacy was how your relationship first started. From your first time in the lea beyond your father’s walls, to when he presses you into the futon in your husband’s home, Sukuna is no stranger to any inch, any measure of your body. You have come to know his as well, tracking every change with each moon. You are certain that you are more familiar with him than he is with you, however, as he has never once made mention of the children.
Or, rather, the children that never came to be.
Over the years, there have been ten. Each one, you have taken great pains to hide from the King of Curses. Your husband is not subject to such deceit. If anything, your infertility works in your favor. He does not come to visit you as often anymore, unhappy as he is with the fact that you’ve yet to bear him a sole male heir to disinherit Michimaru and Takechiyo, the cursed twins. It gives you more time to spend with your boys—and more time with Sukuna, who does not seem particularly bothered that you have not granted him children either, despite the many times you have been together.
You wonder if you are mistaking his satisfaction as indifference. Perhaps children would only serve to be a hindrance to his grand ambitions. He is not the most fatherly of men—although, thinking about it, you suppose you do not know any good fathers in the first place.
Sukuna’s warmongering is the last thing you would wish to subject a child to, and your sons are already afraid enough of him as it is. Your family does a good job at spreading fear and panic where Sukuna is concerned. You haven’t yet told the boys that they had already met him when they were babies, that he had once held them in each arm. Back then, he’d been one of your father’s many nameless soldiers, though you have known him since childhood, handsome and broad-shouldered in his armor.
Regardless of his intentions, there was never anything to truly fear, as none of his seed ever took—that is, until this last moon.
You were so certain that it was impossible, that perhaps someone had cursed you into barrenness. You had proved fertile enough not long after your marriage. It was strange to think that you would bear twins and nothing more. Spending the better part of your life valued solely for your womb, your failure to produce more children was met with plenty of speculation, both by yourself and your immediate family. Sukuna, conversely, asked nothing of you but your company. You took solace in that fact, pitiable as it may seem.
And so, when he comes to you on a new moon, his eyes sparkling with mirth as he steps into your quarters, you are at a loss. He notices it too, as he remarks that you look like a trembling doe. It’s not the most flattering creature to be compared to, but you smile indulgently at him nonetheless. When you gesture for him to sit with you, he lays his head in your lap as always.
It is routine—you start by combing his hair away from his face, your hand tracing the familiar curve of his skull as you rub soothing circles into his scalp with the pads of your fingers. Sukuna’s eyes flutter shut at your motion, and your other hand wraps around his face to stroke his jaw. You could almost swear that he starts to purr, though you’re certain he would put you to death for ever suggesting it. At this angle, he is worryingly close to your unborn child. He says nothing to indicate that he knows of its presence.
“You look tired,” you murmur. “I could have Kinu bring us some tea, if you like.”
Sukuna lifts a hand. “Don’t bother. Just keep doing what you’re doing.” He exhales as you massage his temples. “Yes, just like that.”
“I insist.” He’s horrible to deal with when he’s cranky, and you’re not in the mood to let him take it out on your body. When you do not let him bruise your wrists, your hips, or your thighs, he turns to cutting words instead. Pregnancy brings with it a volatile mood, and you refuse to cry in front of him, ever. He hasn’t shown any signs of displeasure yet, but you know he is nothing if not unpredictable. It never hurts to be proactive. “Whatever you want.”
“Fine,” hums Sukuna, one of his lower eyes cracking open. “Yomogi, then.”
Thoughtlessly, your smile drops. He notices, as the other three eyes are suddenly peering at you with suspicion.
Your servants don’t know of Sukuna—at least, that is what you are content to believe. If they have any idea that you have a lover, they say nothing to your husband and they say nothing to you. You do not want to know of their suspicions, of the knowledge that they may hold over you. You cannot spend every day looking over your shoulder from those you spend nearly every waking moment with.
But of your current predicament, they know every detail. Everything to do with your monthly blood, with the miscarriages, to the morning sickness, they’ve cleaned it all. In doing so, you like to believe that they feel some loyalty to you. It helps you sleep at night. And because they know of the happenings of your body, they know that a request for mugwort tea is asking for more blood to clean from your sheets. Infinitely more difficult to remove than vomit, you suspect.
“Do you take issue with my choice?”
You blink, remembering yourself. Shaking your head, you try to move back, only to be pinned by the weight of Sukuna’s torso. You could shove him off, but that wouldn’t end well for anyone. “It’s fine, I just… I thought that yomogi was supposed to ward off evil spirits.” You smile at him, and you notice through your mirror that it is too wan to seem genuine. The bad joke was already enough of a gamble. Your heart sinks as the skepticism remains in his gaze.
“You are distressed,” Sukuna says plainly. “What have you done?”
You furrow your brows. What have you done to me? you wish to ask. You do not. “Nothing,” you hiss instead. Your scandalized tone amuses him; you can tell by the curve of his lips. He’s going to push you more. You place a hand over Sukuna’s mouth before he can, then yelp as he swipes his tongue across your palm. You wipe it on his kimono. “You’re disgusting. Who knows what I’ve touched?”
“It better not have been anything foul or I’ll sever these pretty hands myself.” Sukuna says the words so sweetly, they leave his lips like a song.
You run your fingers through his hair again in reply, and he chuckles.
“All right, I suppose I’ll spare you for now.” He tilts his chin up to meet you halfway when you lean down and kiss him, nibbling on your lower lip. He chases after you when you part, and he wraps a hand around the back of your neck to pull you in again. “I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”
“I think I should be the one saying that about you.”
Sukuna relaxes in your lap once again, contentment flitting across his face. “That was a valiant effort at sidestepping my question, and for that, I shall reward you with leniency.”
There’s always some sense of serenity around him, in both carnage and peace alike. Like he belongs in this world, a curse so certain of its existence that it will never, ever leave. He is tranquil amidst the chaos he sows—a figure of balance. That is how the commoners who champion the Two-Faced Specter refer to him. The Calamity, the Great Equalizer. Judge, jury, executioner. Practically a god. You envy his level of self-satisfaction. Were all the world to feel as confident and assured as Sukuna, there would be a great deal less bloodshed, you think.
Or—knowing mortals as they are—there would be infinitely more. But Sukuna would like that, you suppose.
He interrupts your contemplation by taking your hand and sliding it over his hair again. “Did I say that you could stop?”
No, he most certainly did not. With a weary chuckle, you appease him, and he takes your other hand to press a kiss into your palm. The two of you settle in the silence until the candles wind down, and when they no longer provide adequate light, you lean over to blow them out. As you invite Sukuna to lay with you, he reads in your face that your only intention is to sleep. He climbs into the futon without protest, though he takes up most of it. You’re used to his size. Pleased by it, even.
Sukuna lies on one side. Given the excessive amount of limbs, you doubt that the position is very comfortable. He was steps and a couple of drinks away from conjuring himself a tail, though, so you suppose most of the reason that Sukuna doesn’t sleep is because of the discomfort. Nevertheless, he likes to hold you while you slumber, his arms like a cage. As you settle in his embrace, you find that it is tighter than usual. You fold your hands over your stomach, pressing your back into his chest.
One of his hands rests on your shoulder, while his other arm on the same side winds around your waist. He lays that hand on top of yours. Though he isn’t pressing very hard, you feel every point of his nails like the tip of a blade against his belly. You roll over so that the pin-pricks are instead against the flesh of your back. Tilting your head up to meet his gaze, you marvel at just how… familial the embrace is.
Mother and father on either side, with the child sleeping soundly in the middle. It is a pathetic fantasy, but the thought still lingers in your mind—what if?
Would he run away with you? Abandon everything he’s ever worked for to raise your child (children, possibly) in obscurity? Sukuna could be a fisherman like his father, who abandoned him as a child to be taken in by your family, ostensibly to give him a better life. You’d be a… Spirits, what could you do? Weave, perhaps? Something useful, at least, to show that you were not the spoiled little girl he always made you out to be.
And would your child be a sorcerer? Would they be a simpleton, like you, or would they be as powerful and fearsome as their father? Would ambition consume then, just as it had the man you loved?
Alas, you are a fool to even dream it. The four-armed could-be fisherman traces a finger along your neck, a brow arched.
“Is my face truly so mesmerizing?” he whispers, eyes sparkling. The mirth dissipates when you don’t react, and he instead leans away from you to prop himself up on his lower elbow. He watches you not as one would a lover, but the way a hunter stalks its prey—like he’s waiting for any misstep he could leap upon. “All right, come out with it.”
“What?” The word doesn’t sound convincing, even to yourself. Your failure at duplicity causes both disappointment and disdain to war upon Sukuna’s face. Quickly, you lift your hands to appease him. “I’ve just been feeling a little tired these days is all. I’ve already sent for a healer. Surely they can figure out what’s wrong with me.”
“Is there any healer in the province than yourself?” he scoffs. You are not sure whether to be flattered by the praise, spoken with venom, or not. “If there was anyone with a greater grasp on reverse cursed technique, they may very well be a god.”
You stroke his jaw tenderly with the backs of your fingers, rubbing a thumb across his cheek. “Not every malady can be healed by my power,” you remind him. To be fair, you did actually call for a second opinion. You could simply be suffering through some foodborne illness—but you know your body best, and you know now that something is dwelling within it. You have called for a midwife, just to be sure.
“I don’t like seeing you upset.” Sukuna’s lips form a scowl. “Tell me what is required, and I will make it stop.”
His words give you pause, an incredulous laugh nearly bubbling out of you. You subdue yourself, but the wonder is still there. You tuck yourself into him to hide your mirth.
Is this the closest you’ll ever get to genuine romance from him? You know that you can never tell him anything. And while you’d think yourself a monster if he was anyone else, you know that the child would be safer if they had never known of Sukuna at all.
How on earth would you tell the child that their father was a beast? You could lie to them, pretend that your husband was the one who sired them and that the twins were his full brothers. You could never tell them at all, neither confirming nor denying, and leave it until they found out the truth in their own time. Then you would be no better than the family you tried to escape.
You had always thought yourself a decent mother, fair and loving. But a child of Sukuna could never know a world of peace, and with how irrevocably you have become intertwined with him, you could not give the child the normal, happy life it deserved.
Your brother’s wife has a sister in Mino. That upstart in Aizu seems to be of good stock, herself a scholar. Perhaps either of these women would be willing to raise your baby as her own.
“There is nothing you can do,” you murmur into the side of Sukuna’s neck. You can feel a rumbling in his throat, a low growl in reply. When you stroke his back, he stills. There is virtually no space between you, and you can feel the mouth on his stomach shift against your midsection. Instinctively, you slide a hand over yourself as a barrier.
He doesn’t seem to notice the defensive gesture, and for that, you are grateful. Sukuna never sleeps when he is with you, only laying in a facsimile of it in his stillness and steadiness while you actively slumber. He is always gone in the morning when you awake, but if you are (un)lucky, you can still catch his scent on you. As you lean back to rub noses with him, you find him staring at you intently. Eyes like piercing daggers, you do not doubt that he has watched you like this many nights before.
“Nothing at all.” It is not a question. It is said with malice, with suspicion.
Your little dream of a life with him seems ever further away. An idiot’s delusion.
This man does not love you—he loves how much he can control you. He loves that you sit prettily in the palm of his hand, that you give him everything without protest. He loves that he always leaves you wanting for more. He loves that you lie for him, that he is your precious secret. He loves the feeling of turning you against his greatest enemies, even if you had always despised them to begin with.
He loves that he is one of the only reasons you are ever happy. He loves that you are afraid of his moods and that you do all that you can to please him. He loves that you do as he asks, in all respects save one. He loves that you are so small against him, so frail and breakable. He loves you most when you are at your weakest. He loves only as a monster loves.
You cannot—you will not—ever allow him to sink his claws into this child.
You press a gentle kiss to Sukuna’s lips, a false promise. “Nothing at all.”