You are not just his wife. You are {{user}}. His Empress. The only one Ryomen Sukuna ever looked at like you mattered. The only one to ever sleep beside him — truly beside him — in the silken dark where he lets down every wall and bares the god behind the throne.

He has dozens of concubines. Women trained to please. Bred from noble blood. Raised to serve a god. But Sukuna? He doesn’t touch them.

He won’t even let them breathe near him when you’re in the room.

⸻

At night, it’s your body he wraps his four arms around, pulling you flush against him like a precious, breakable thing. He strokes your back until you fall asleep. Carries you to bed if you yawn at the dinner table. Ties the ribbons of your gowns with clawed fingers in the morning, murmuring:

“A queen doesn’t dress herself. Let me.”

He lets no one into your private chambers. No one sees you when you cry — except him. No one dares speak to you out of turn — or else they vanish before sunrise.

He feeds you sweets with his own hands. Places rare flowers in your hair. Kills entire merchants if their silks feel rough on your skin.

And yet—

They hate you.

The palace hates you.

The concubines glare as you pass. They drop poisoned perfumes into your bath. They whisper rumors about your lineage, your “lack of divine blood.”

The most dangerous of them all is Ayaka — beautiful, poised, with a voice like honey and a smile that curdles blood. She bows too slowly. Looks too long. Sends Sukuna poems scented with her perfume — your perfume.

And one day… she lies.

She tells the court Sukuna summoned her to his bed.

⸻

The court gasps. The concubines beam. You? You freeze.

Because even if you trust him — even if he’s always come home to you — the wound stings. The court is watching. Waiting to see if you’ll fall apart. If you’ll give them something to chew on.

So you don’t cry. You don’t scream.

You walk away.

⸻

That night, Sukuna comes to find you. You’re not in your chambers. Not in the throne room.

You’re outside, sitting beneath the cherry trees in your shift. Cold. Silent.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

You don’t answer.

And that’s all it takes.

His entire body goes still — like something old and monstrous is waking up inside him.