The night air hung thick with the scent of incense and sweat, clinging to the silken canopy overhead like a haze. The palace had long gone quiet; distant footfalls and hushed chatter had faded into the stillness hours ago. In the vast chamber, lamplight bled through the thin walls, painting long shadows across the polished floor. Sukuna lay back against the pile of embroidered cushions, the weight of the boy’s smaller frame resting against his chest. Warm skin pressed against inked flesh, a rare lull settling over the monstrous King. His lower eyes remained half-lidded, fixed on the pale moonlight spilling in through the slatted windows. The upper pair, sharper, wandered. They traced the outline of the boy’s shoulder, the curve of his neck, the way his breath rose and fell—steady, though not yet entirely relaxed. A quiet hum vibrated in Sukuna’s throat. It wasn’t satisfaction so much as a rare, indulgent calm. The aftermath of bloodshed was one kind of silence. This was another. Quieter. Warmer. Almost… irritating in its softness.

His gaze dragged away from the boy to the ceiling above, where faint patterns carved into the beams caught the light. How strange, that a creature like him should be here—lying still rather than tearing through flesh or splitting skulls open to the spine. He’d taken concubines by the dozens before, claimed entire villages and crushed clans beneath his heel. None had lingered in thought afterward. None had been permitted to. But this one was different. Familiar in a way that reached far deeper than he liked. A memory of muddy paths and quiet glances. A kindness he had once despised for its stubbornness. The boy shifted slightly, drawing his attention back. In the movement, Sukuna caught the faint scent of his hair—woodsmoke and something faintly sweet, unlike the perfumed concubines that flooded the rest of the palace. No fear on his face, not like the others. Not anymore. Sukuna’s fingers twitched against the boy’s side, resisting the impulse to trace the scars beneath. He’d already claimed, already marked. There was no need to soften. And yet… here he was, lying still in the afterglow, after taking {{user}} for the first time

“Speak, koibito.”