Eat Me Whole, My Darling
2 of 4 chapters currently avaliable.
Chapter 1
You’d correctly assume he doesn’t desire anyone.
The king of all things reeks of death. He did from the moment he was born. Sweet like meat turning, hot like coals, a rancid salty-sulfur scent which clings to everywhere he’s been days after he’s left.
The world is subject to his whim, and lucky he elects at any point to lead it. He’s outlived his clan by killing any who share his blood and he has no desire for mates. He has attendants, both mortal and monster, the best of which he considers slaves only barely worth the effort it takes to keep them alive. The worst are disposable insects to be crushed whenever and however he pleases. He’s barely human anymore—he’ll insist he never was, just evil wearing the skin of man before his ascension—and so he does not care for human life.
The lust he knows? Blood lust. And he’s an addict. The rush of violence drives him wild; he lives on it and drowns in it until he’s a beast drenched in blood and full from the fat of his enemies. Nothing compels him except the desire for territory and power.
He is the first of his kind, so there was no name for him when he was born. Such labels do not concern him. What is he? There is no other word for him than emperor, and to rule over the suffering of the living was his fate.
But what happens to the man who wishes to rule the world, after he gains it?
At first, another kind of conquest held dominion over his days as he sought the submission of Man’s will instead of his land and profits. This he enjoyed at first. Bloody rebellions quelled, villages, then cities, then nations all quaking at the sound of his name, falling to their knees in surrender the moment after they realized the profundity of the consequences for those that dare oppose the rightful king.
But eventually the faith is gained, the fear respected, his rule iron, the wealth accrued. Only fools tried to fight him anymore, scandals were quiet sniveling affairs.
He has everything. And what he does not have, he can acquire with little effort. The world was utterly his and has been for as long as most everyone can remember.
It was… boring.
These are the thoughts of the King of Curses, ruler of everything: Sukuna Ryoumen.
He sat in his vast palace, built on the ruins of some other scoundrel’s puny attempt at building a nation. Some settlement that exists only in his most distant memories and under the rock which supports his enduring estate. His castle was built of bone white stone. His roof was the only one in all the world that sparkled blood red—it was rumored the entire surface was laid with the finest rubies to make it glitter like that. His marble floors were shined to perfection, and kept that way under threat of death.
To the outsider, all things appeared perfect.
You admired all this as you entered the dreaded, malevolent domain of the Emperor. Blood red carpets lined the halls, every bouquet featured red flowers. He liked the striking difference between white and red, or he had to, as they were the only colors visible down the halls you and your clan were allowed to walk. You’d never been allowed to attend the seasonal reckoning, but after much begging you were here, and so you drank in the sight of this place with fervor. Every sharp corner you peered down memorized as you almost greedily stole glances at the pristine corridors.
“Keep your head down, y/n.” Your father reminds you as a pair of red double doors at the end of the hall loom over you and yours. You stand to his left, your brother to his right, your mother and extended family all behind you in neat rows.
You are the Harvesters, a clan loyal to the monster and his curses. You and yours deal with the lifeless and begotten. Emperor Ryoumen does not bury the bodies of the weak or traitors. They are left to fetter in the sun. Some are eaten by the monsters in his army—curses all of them, who savor the flesh of men over any other beast—then the vultures. After that your people, the Harvester Butterflies, cleaned the carcasses of anything dead on the battlefield, and dealt with the bones, which would be turned to dust and used across the territory.
Death was not synonymous with waste in your world. The dead, especially associated with the spoils of war, were the fruits of the garden which sustained the family and the people of the land. The bones you collected would become the mortar which built temples. Tending to the war fields was a great privilege, one gifted to your bloodline by the emperor many, many generations previous, and since then he was treated with surreal reverence by your people.
You’d wanted to breathe the same air as the man that was everything to the clan, your god. Why your father had resisted allowing you to take the seasonal flight, you do not know, but now you stood in the front of the line waiting for the doors to part, elated. This was heaven. If there was another place to go after your spirit left your flesh, you’d turn your back to it to stay in this moment of baited pseudo-spiritual excitement for an eternity.
You doubted you’d even be able to look upon him, yet, it was enough. To simply be in his presence was an honor beyond words. Even standing in the hall was enough to satisfy you. You’d dreamed of the one who emitted that faint scent of death and sulfur that was said to be his, it lingered where he waged war, always making your wings twitch and your heart flutter. Here, that scent practically poisoned the air with its putrid thickness.
You hear them announce through the door. “The Kaleidoscope has arrived, your malevolence.”
It takes everything in you to keep still. You wish to flutter and preen, to nuzzle yourself into the corner and inhale the world. Surely, you’d suck up the essence hiding there and use it as the finest nectar.
You resist. Barely.
This is an important day, your wings must be kept very, very still. They are a brilliant spotting of autumn colors, with perfect dots the color of leaves molding into the ground towards the end of fall. Your mother will chastise you if you flash them, so you contain yourself just barely when finally, finally, finally, the way parts and a fresh flush of that smell hits your senses.
Your lashes flutter. How divine.
You almost forget to walk, but you’ll do your family no shame now. You keep in step with your father, your head down, your hands hidden in the large sleeves of the black clocks which you all wear. You put them on front-to-back. The thick of the fabric covers your front, and the ties are carefully made around your back to keep it from slipping off but without hiding your precious colors. None of your flesh could be seen, the drawn-up hoods, and the sleeves you were meant to hide your hands in made sure of that.
The only member of the kaleidoscope who could be recognized by face was your father, the only one allowed to speak. He takes one step forward to distinguish himself further.
“Hail to the Emperor above all others.” Your father greets him, and all in the kaleidoscope bow deeply. “An honor to stand before you another year, my liege and lordship.”
“Lord Harvester.” Emperor Sukuna greets in return.
Pride flushes your body to have your god speak so familiarly with your father. They speak back and forth of important things, but you are of no mind to hear them. You’re dizzy. This is the scent you’ve longed for since… well, quite literally as long as you can remember. The emperor is no normal man or monster, he’s lived several thousand years, and your clan has served by his side all that time. Since you were just a little caterpillar feasting on your first corpse you have dreamed of this scent, you were sure it was your very first memory.
The mumbling voices of the men speaking to each other about the state of the world, and the brilliance of his excellency’s leadership suddenly sharpens into focus.
“Yes, your radiant malevolence. I arrive to you each year so my clan my bask in your presence. We honor you in all ways, and always have, to earn the right to stand before you are what all Harvesters work for.”
“Which members?” Emperor Ryoumen, for seemingly no reason at all, already sounds irritated.
Your father doesn’t stutter, no he’s too prim for that, but he tilts his head and his voice carries the unmistakable lit of surprise. The Emperor has never taken much interest in the Harvesters outside of their productivity, and only seemed to barely entertain these seasonal parades.
“Our proudest warriors stand at the rear, those with accolades stand between them and myself, including my mate, our children and much of our extended family. We are prideful Harvesters for the crown, it is the highest honor to know the presence of your flesh.”
Ah yes, your accolades. You’d earned yours to be here, several times over. Your father had been so very insistent you not go, as the others were allowed, so you’d worked so intently it would dishonor him to refuse you any longer. It took that and a good deal of badgering to stand here. You smile, just a little, more than content with your reward.
When you eventually mated, and laid your caterpillars upon the fields of war for their first feast, you would tell them of their great emperor. That he was strong and worthy, and that his scent of death upon the land was sweeter than any corpse he offered as feed. You breathe deep.
Glorious. Perfect. Everything you could ask for.
Well… you do have one final desire. You’d like to see the man that radiates so, to know what the god of your people really looks like. It’s against every rule, but in that moment you’re so high that you convince yourself it wouldn’t hurt to get one little peak.
Just then, you tip your head up. The throne towers above you, further than you expected. You see nothing but stairs, more of that shining white marble which practically glows in the torchlight. You should put your head back down, but you don’t. You look a little further up, then more, and more, until you see the tips of his feet, covered by pointed black shoes. He’s wearing all black, gossamer silk robes that glide your eyes up just enough to gaze upon his face.
Emperor Sukuna Ryoumen. Your god. A crack of electricity hurtles down your back as you bask in his image, his visage baptizing you like a thunderstorm. He’s got a sloping forehead which homes four eyes and strangely textured skin that pulls up into his hairline to create horns. Flame lick of pink hair, blown back from his face by some force of nature, dark marks of power make inky lines down his cheeks to his chin, across the bridge of his nose, down his neck, leading to someplace you can’t see but now feel distinctly offended that you can’t.
Demon. Not a word you would use for him, but you see it now.
He is a monster and he looks like one, albeit with an alluring magnetism that defies regular standards of attraction. Even capable of flight, you’d crawl on your belly up those stairs at a chance to kiss the shine on his shoes, let alone feel the heat of his hands on your body. Then you notice the cut of his robe, where four sleeves extend from his shoulders and from his lower rib cage instead of just two. This revelation makes you nearly shiver.
Four of them. He’s got four arms. Four hands. That’s twenty fingers in total, all he can use to do as he pleases. No wonder he causes so much ruin.
How could he use those hands to do so much more… even the barest thought of how such a body could spoil you to a pitiful state has your stomach twist up with a pleasured twinge.
You want him, desperately so, which is the most sac-religious thought you’ve ever had.
He's looking down, one hand resting lazily on his cheek while the others ideally drum against the throne. He does seem to intently listen to your father, but you notice for just one moment that four glowing red eyes flicker to regard your curious peaking. You flush, embarrassed and caught, looking down so fast there is no hiding what you’ve done.
Your heart patters so fast, so very fast.
“Quiet.” He declares, cutting your father off. “Declare your party, now.”
What was left of your nerves drops through the floor, your stomach churns again. If he kills you for looking upon his blessed form, then at least you ascended this far in all the lifetimes it took for you to be here able to even glance at him.
Your father clears his throat, attempting to silence the surprise in his tone. “Excuse me, my liege?”
“Who is the one to your left?” Emperor Sukuna doesn’t repeat himself ever, but this is as close to it as he’ll come. The Lord Harvester is lucky he and his people are so loyal, as he’s killed curses in his army for less than answering a question of his with a question of their own.
Your father doesn’t answer for a moment. You can practically hear how his lips draw in, and literally hear his cloak shifts around as he doesn’t immediately form a response. When he very carefully responds, the words sound measured and pointed.
“The front of the line is reserved for only the highest ranking collectors. Men stand to the right, and women the left, the priesthood stands centerfold. To the left of me is a renowned Harvester, who worked to stand here before you in a position of power and grace amongst our Kaleidoscope. I am proud to say that this season it is my own son and daughter who stand on either side of me, earning the right to be before you on their own merits.”
“And you do not teach the products of your blood simple manners?”
Your head dips lower. The rush of shame should extinguish this terrible fire looking upon him has ignited in you, but it does not. You’ve never felt more alive.
“I meant to.” Your father nearly grumbles. “But she’s always been willful.”
“Hm.” He hums. “Step forward, female child of the Lord.”
You obey, of course you do. You take a shaking step forward; you can’t help how the autumn color of your wings flickers a slight iridescent on the walls as they catch the touch light. You can barely keep yourself still and poised, excitement races through every vein available to be excited.
“Will you confess to your congregation the sin you’ve committed?”
You lay yourself down to the ground, bowing to him as low and deep as you can, hands stretched out towards his throne. You lower your wings, a sign of submission amongst yours, and offer your most vulnerable parts of being to his wrath. The honor of even bowing before him makes you shamefully shy.
“I dared look upon you with the eyes of a lesser being, unworthy of gazing up at your sacred form.” You admit with no hesitation, “ I beg your forgiveness for one who is just a faithful soul, overtaken by the urge to view your excellency.”
You hear gasps behind you. Scenting him is honor enough, but to be so greedy as to look? No one would have expected such crassness from one of your station.
“You must have done such a bold thing for a reason.” He doesn’t need to say more.
“May I be very honest with you, my liege?”
“If you lie, there will be dire consequences which surpass your comprehension. I command you to sit up. You dared to gaze on me once, explain to me why you did so while committing the same crime which now has you on your knees.”
You do as you're told, though it feels wrong. Keeping your head bent just a moment longer, you seal yourself to look upon him again, slowly, while savoring every moment of ticking your eyes back up his mighty, towering throne. The empty expanse of stairs feels like a tease; to think you’ve seen him once and he’s commanding you to look upon him again! Your head feels light and you could faint.
When you look up at him, he’s laid the entire weight of his attention on you. Those red-hot eyes betray nothing, you couldn’t even guess at what he was thinking. You just stare up at him, agape. Drinking in the plane of his cheek bones, admiring the marks of power which have scared his face. How do those marks trace across the rest of his body? You would touch them if you could, worship them.
He has to prompt you, and do your eyes deceive you in the half light, or does he smirk oh-so-subtly at your slack jawed expression.
“Speak, Harvester.”
“I simply had to know if you look as delicious as you smell.” The words spill out in a pleased breath. “I was compelled beyond reason.”
“We’re you pleased with what you observed, Harvester?”
You bite your lip, but cannot lie. “Yes, your supreme malevolence.”
“Remove your hood and stand.”
As he commands, you obey. It’s just a little difficult to see him in this light and from this distance, but his eyes must narrow on you as he takes in your features. It’s too much for you, even the idea of his interest is beyond your dreams, tears prick the corner of your eyes.
He notices.
“Tell me, what is it that passes your thoughts as you stare, Harvester?”
“I think, if I have earned execution for my slight on your person, and you were the last thing I saw in this life, I would still die a blessed woman. And I pray that in death I’m still allowed to serve you, and that when my clanfolk feast upon my corpse, my flesh is sweet, tenderized by your wrath.”
Whatever expectations you had of his response to this confession, you were not prepared for his laughter. It wasn’t a happy sound, or even a pleased sound. Caustic, viperous laughter made your wings tremor slightly. He is, by some tiny measure, amused with you.
“I’ve decided, Lord Harvester.” He declares.
Your father straightens his posture. “Decided what, my supreme liege?”
“I have been troubled recently by a rush of ill-trained staff and nobles who think themselves better than their station, not crass enough to earn death but nonetheless overtly disrespectful despite their desire for my favor. Amongst all those who serve in my court, the Harvesters are seen as omens and begetters of death, one joining them in the day-to-day may serve as a more gentle reminder of their place, since the intimidation of their Emperor seems only to encourage improper conduct.”
This generation was full of mouthy upstarts--such things happened once every few hundred years. He’d learned after the first two iterations of this curse that killing them all only weakened his armies. The children of these obnoxious young men often became supremely powerful--and more loyal when their sires weren’t murdered for the slight of simply annoying him.
“Surely one of, or even a pair or two, of my most accomplished knights would serve that purpose better, great malevolent one.” Your father attempts to negotiate. “We are pleased to serve you in all your needs, be they on the battlefield or beyond.”
“If violence would sway them, I would not seek alternative means of wrangling the infidels in my presence.” He dryly remarks. “You, child of the lord.”
And he must be referring to you. You’re at rapt attention, never having even blinked since he demanded you look upon his sacred everlasting temple. You stay silent, awaiting his question with big, eager eyes.
“Do you accept my proposition to serve on my court, and do my bidding?”
“Of course, master of masters. I am yours loyally, eternally.”
“Then it is settled. You are now mine.”
He commands you to step forward, and stand opposite of your kin. You do so, of course, every order he gives is like oxygen to your lungs. Yet every word he says after that curling possessive phrase simply slips from your mind the moment you’ve obeyed him.
You are now mine.
A vortex of those words, lowly spoken and commanding, repeat over and over. They're the only words you'll ever need to hear again. Your heart won’t stop beating to the rhythm of your excitement and your wings tremble just so slightly. Even as your mother discreetly says her farewells and you watch your clan, your family, the kaleidoscope which makes up the world you’ve always known, fly away from you in a wind of autumn colors fading into the darkness of the night sky.
As you stare off at them, waving one last time even if none turn back to see you, you don’t notice the intensity of his gaze on your back. You might have compared him to a spider if you did, one satisfied with the plumpness of the prey which shakes against the bondage of its web.
Emperor Sukuna Ryoumen lets his gaze linger on you longer than he should, and longer than he cares to stare at most beings. He’s confused by himself at this moment, yet not displeased as he watches the slow, calm beat of your wings from a distance. He’s stirred in a way he’s never been stirred before and he’s determined to find out why. His heart seizes as you turn back to him with that pure devoted gaze, bowing his way one respectfully before you’re taken by Uraume to your new quarters.
No one, not in all the many many years of living, has anyone ever looked at him like that. There was not even a shred of faux desire in your eyes, no hidden disgust, no ulterior motivation hiding behind your words, no fanaticism, no fear.
Perhaps it’s curiosity that drives him to keep you, uniqueness means more and more the longer one lives. But even as you walk off, led by his most faithful and capable servant, he dislikes the distance. He watches it grow, feeling this odd ache within him increase at the same rate, but he resists the urge to get up and follow after you.
Yes, curious indeed…
Chapter 2
Uraume was flabbergasted.
As far as they could recall, they were supposed to have gained a new member of the castle staff. This female was to be an attendant, not a new thing to attend to. Yet here they were, attending you instead of his lordship and master. Visibly they look unperturbed, as always, but one should not be fooled by appearances—Uraume is not pleased.
They guide you to the hall after the rest of the court has seated, with the same timeliness and precision as they would the Emperor, and you set yourself to the right of his holy malevolence. Not to sit at a table setting, no, simply to stand there. You look out of place, dressed plainly in the striped black and white robes the Harvesters traditionally wore. You’d been offered other clothes by the Emperor himself, but refused them, much to the irritation of the demons who’d been ordered to make and deliver the garments.
Despite this obstinance, you went unpunished. And when Uraume went to inform their master of your answer to his gifts, the response was only laughter. Laughter. It was at that moment that they decided they hated you.
It wasn’t jealousy, they just knew their place and knew the place you belonged in too. And it certainly wasn’t watching over the emperor’s table, not with shy or discerning eyes, but with open curious gazes at the food and the people.
It was utterly disrespectful to the way of things.
While you were not human, you were not a curse either. Not a demon, or a monster. Not many of the animal-men which littered the lands ever came to Uraume’s attention. Perhaps there were a few on staff, but they were only slightly more useful than their completely human counterparts and only if the animal in them made them hardier than the average monkey. They, like their master, looked down on all mortals, as it was correct for them to do.
That is why they could not comprehend you.
A butterfly. Feeble, delicate, flighty.
They couldn’t think of an insect they hated more than the butterfly. A moth at least laid destruction upon the fibers it found. A butterfly was a pest. A floaty, distracting spec in the air. They’d yet to see with their own eyes a single way in which you were useful to the castle. They’d never met a Harvester. They did not know exactly what purpose such creatures served in the wider world, and did not care to know either.
So what your people tended the dead? Most of the beings allowed residence here had slaughtered hundreds, if not thousands, and ate the flesh of men as commonly as any other animal meat. Were you somehow meant to intimidate them? It made no sense.
And yet, though you were a weak creature below even Uraume’s consideration, you were obviously highly favored by his master.
Emperor Ryoumen, however, did not seem to notice the little ways in which he favored you.
“My malevolent lord.” You greet him every morning. “What a beautiful day.”
“I do not consider any day more or less pleasant than another.” He replies distractedly. “Nor understand why that should be commented on every hour after sunrise.”
“Well, you should at least notice.” You say, daring to correct the ruler of all things. Uraume must bite their tongue not to chastise you. They’ve already been reprimanded for doing so twice before. “The dawn light cast a glorious gold on the castle gardens. If you’re not going to enjoy the view, why build such a magnificent and sprawling estate?”
At that, head servant Uraume could not hold back sharp words. “Dare you not question the Lord of Suffering—”
But instead of smiting you for daring to interrogate their master, the Emperor raises a hand and silences his oldest companion. He regards your figure with interest, a clear slow drag of his sacred gaze up and down the curves of your body, and Uraume swears bile churns in their stomach.
“I built it because I could.” He answers.
“And it’s very, very nice. I think I’d like to see more of it, honestly, I’d no idea there was so much finely manicured land around your radiance’s home.”
Home?! What an insulting word to use to describe the capital of the world! A home? They feel red in the face. What a presumptuous pest you are, they can’t wait until you’re thrown out, or better yet killed—
“I’ll consider it.”
You look surprised. Damn you for being able to show it on your face, because even that you get wrong. You don’t show half the shock they feel, and none of the disgust.
“Consider what, most high one?” You ask in a too-sweet too-innocent voice.
“Taking you around.” The Emperor drawls, as if such invitations are normal. “There are several districts to the estate and it would take weeks by foot to see it all. It’s been some time since I have personally surveyed them. I need to ensure that my standards have not been forgotten while my attention has drifted from the maintenance of the galley. Actually, I’ve decided. We’ll begin walking it, say, midafternoon once the lords of the south have presented their supposed treaty for my consideration.”
“Truly, really truly?” You gush, “That would be beyond delightful, my malevolent holiness! What a gift you allow this poor ghost of death, to see the glory of your world by your side.”
The only good thing about you seemed to be your faith. Even if you didn’t have any manners at all, you at least showed the Emperor the reverence he was due. And you always obeyed him.
“Hush.” The Emperor commands you, and you slip a hand over your mouth to stop anymore words from spilling out. “Eat this, and then resume your duty, Harvester.”
“As you command, master of all things.”
This next part was the one Uraume hated most. How their precious most coveted Emperor would, with his own sacred hands, take an entire rib or a leg of meat and present it to you for you to consume. They saw how he’d watch (and so everyone else watched too) with this half lidded satisfied glare as you bent over and took the meat from his hand with your mouth. You exhale first, a harvest-colored noxious mist making the flesh shrink with rot right before all on-looker’s eyes, then you’d unfurl and curl your tongue around the flesh which all slips into your mouth with a disgusting slurp.
Well, Uraume’d never seen a butterfly do that. Maybe you were a bit monstrous, but in no way did that impress them. They remained firm in their dislike for you.
There is an invisible twitch in their eye as they watch over what has become an oddly ordinary scene. The servants are not meant to eat at the table with the lord or any of his court. Servants eat in sometime late in the night, after all the work of the day is done. The highest-ranking human servants nibble on the left overs, the rest were lucky to consume the spiced gruel prepared for them.
And there you stand, feasting. Your tongue searches around for the last scraps, and when it finds the bones clean, you rise and he places it on the table for you.
Uraume, and the collection of royal humans and demons around the table, might have watched with a mixture of disgust, fear, and consideration. But the great and only Emperor Sukuna Ryoumen watched with a greedy yet unspoken desire.
“Thank you for the treat, my lord.” You thank him, voice slightly sticky.
And Emperor Ryoumen just curls his hand closed and points to the other side of the hall, silently dismissing you. It might have appeared like he was not watching, but he was. From his periphery, his right eyes tracked you as you began to walk around the table freely. Your wings flutter as you walk away, in a way he’s learned means you’re contented.
He liked how your wanderings caused a sweaty anxiety to pepper the foreheads of the humans allowed at his feasting table and how your presence confused the demons. His leniency with you is so natural it confounds him, yet that slow, double taped flutter which ends in you freezing in place and watching those around the table with statuesque stillness has become one of his favorite sights. You might stop mid step behind a particularly at ill-ease guest’s chair, or perch yourself somewhere slightly more out of the way, but wherever you are, it’s difficult to keep himself from gazing your direction.
You changed the world around you just by being present. And this amused him, for he felt himself unaffected.
The Ruler, the one above all others, the greatest being to exist, the true immortal beast, could not see for himself that he was the most enamored, and this perhaps unnerved his court more than anything else. You had a power none before you had, and they were cautious of what that might mean.
The first day you’d joined the court for a meal they knew something had changed in Emperor Ryoumen.
It started off innocent enough. Well, innocent enough to you. A simple comment—a compliment even—which earned you a rather nasty look from Uraume a few afternoons after you arrived.
It was the first time you’d been invited to enter the feasting hall. The first time was over supper, the castle was lit with a seemingly endless line of torches which cast a twisting golden glow, muddling the strong distinction between red and white which were so starkly visible in the day. A mysterious aura that usually existed only in his throne room stretched across his entire palace.
You were awestruck by it, to say the least. Led by Uraume in a hypnotic sort of trance. This was before you’d spied the food.
“Oh!” You’d exclaimed upon seeing the spread of meats and stewed treats displayed across the banquet, “That looks delicious!”
“Do not gaze upon the spread of the heavenly one, Harvester.” Uraume had to bite back the harlot instead of calling you by the titled they’d been ordered to refer to you as, “Be grateful you are even allowed to stand beside it and—” The demon’s mouth snaps shut when the Emperor raises his hand to silence the servant, the one person until this point who might have considered themselves openly favored by the ancient ruler.
In this moment their world shatters, not that anyone sees. And yet, they all sense a change. The table is already set, each seat filled by an owner of powerful eyes and a status, and these persons know that no one stands beside the Emperor at the head of the table. Just his wave ordering you closer makes a whisper of shock race between them.
“Harvester y/n.” Emperor Ryoumen drawls, who does not care about eyes on him and never has, “What is it you eat?”
“My people are carnivores, your malevolency.”
“I do believe I knew that.” He sounds disinterested, but the table has gone silent. Hardly ever does the Emperor speak during a meal—these ostentatious meals were more for show than to actually enjoy the food being served. He takes a log of unrecognizable flesh with a thick bone visible in the center, and he offers it up to you. “Try this.”
You move to lift the large piece of meat from his hand carefully so as to not touch him with your fingers. But the moment he notices your arm move he snatches the morsel away. Four red eyes consider you with an up-and-down flicker, and your heart beat ticks with a nervous patter.
“No, this table is not for you. If you wish to eat, you will do so from my hand.”
It’s a command, and you don’t wish to disobey. Yet and still, you hesitate.
“I do not wish to harm you, most high one, my breath is toxic.” You explain, “It will wilt your flesh.”
He cackles, “You are not capable of maiming me. Eat.”
And the Emperor’s words cannot be ignored or disobeyed. So, a bit awkwardly the first time, you do as you do with food, and as you’ve done every other time. You can almost imagine that as you consume, you also take in his breath and some small sample of his spirit which graces your treat simply by nature of him feeding it to you.
Your thoughts are consumed by him. In part that he’s been so kind to you, the other that you’re allowed to be so close to him. You’re a bit giddy and a bit nervous, he can see that in the way your eyes flicker between the meat in his palm and his eyes.
His thoughts, on the other hand, dig around for answers.
“Tell me, what do you think of this?” He voices.
“It’s very salty.” You reply once it’s gone. “And what sort of meat is it?”
“Sea monster.” He says casually, and you gasp. He likes the look of surprise on your face, the little sounds you make when you feel as if he’s gifted you something special, when a finery like sea beast is an everyday entree at his table. You’re very easy to delight. “Is it to your taste?”
However, you don’t simply nod your head like a sheep and say whatever it is you think might please him. No, no, you admit shyly, “Well, I can tell it was prepared with care but it’s a bit fresh for my liking. It would be much better with a bit of sun seasoning, I’m sure.” Then that strange sucking tongue you have darts out to lick your lips, and you add, “I do like that it’s salty.”
From the corner of his eyes he sees the reactions of the on lookers. Uraume did not approve, and the others seemed to fear for your life. But Sukuna? He feels a tickle in his throat and he laughs at you again. He can’t help himself. He’s laughed more since the moment you fell to your knees before him than he has in the entirety of his existence.
You don’t flinch from it, or frown. Your lips turn to a pleased but small smile which shines on him, and he feels a heat build in his chest. This, this feeling right here, is what you draw out from him, and what he cannot understand. It’s not a rabid sort of heat, like anger or the kind he gets from victory, it’s a tight clenching of his chest that veers on painful but somehow feels satisfying.
“I can feed you too, flutter-shy.” A voice teases, louder than the common chatter. “What do you do to earn treats, pretty thing?”
Emperor Ryoumen looks up, immediately enraged. His eyes find the perpetrator’s cocky grin not so far from the table head. He recognizes those features. Bright blue eyes, pale hair, lanky. The Gojo heir, who has been sent here for observation. He hates this child, especially as he reigns in the desire to smite him. Though even the King can admit the young man is powerful and will probably only grow stronger, he’s also an arrogant nuisance and has been since he was spawned.
You don’t answer, and having not noticed the look of discomfort that flickers across your face or earned the immediate force of the emperor’s wrath either, the young Gojo continues his jibbing.
“I wouldn’t mind myself a pet, if they looked half as charming as you. Don’t think I could ever let your pretty feet touch the ground though. Are you Emperor Ryo’s new toy? Good choice sire, I’ve heard these insect folk are sensitive—”
“Shut your fowl filthy mouth. Don’t speak like scum unless you desire to be treated like scum.” He sneers the boy’s way. “The Harvester is to serve me, not the court as your entertainment.”
Gojo’s smile doesn’t flinch, but he nods his head. “Apologies master of masters, of course. I wasn’t aware that you didn’t like to share.”
“Be grateful we share air.” The Emperor dismisses him with a short wave.
The Gojo heir and his little comrade in terror of the Geto clan, share a look which the Emperor does not acknowledge. The talk starts then, but it certainly doesn’t end. Especially not when there are many more meals to come, each which feature you being fed from the Great Sukuna Ryoumen’s own hands.
He insists on it, even when you shy away from accepting. The offerings are always different, but always the finest pieces of meat, fresh and juicy, though he knew they were not your favorite. He gave them to you just to know what you thought of things he’d grown so used to they seemed no different to him than the tiles that lined his halls. Or so he said.
His eyes fixated on your mouth, and he savored the tingle of your noxious breath on his skin as your simple exhale rotted the flesh right before his eyes. He watched how you sucked every bone presented to you absolutely dry. He memorized the curl of your proboscis and the flat of the fleshy part of your tongue, along with the alien way you did everything, and it did not stop amusing him.
It might have looked a certain way, but he only watched to ensure you actually fed, since you rejected so many of his offerings when he wasn’t the one personally delivering them to you. And when had he ever cared if another being was well fed or not? That was a question best not asked or answered.
Though he masked the brunt of his ire with apathy, that awful Gojo boy did bring something to his attention which he continued to wrestle with even weeks later. It was laced in and out of the court rumors, and through it all that one word spoken over and over, stuck with him.
Pet.
Initially he’d rejected that word. He didn’t need amusement, or something useless to take care of. He didn’t like pets; the entire concept was inane to him—as inane as marriage and siring offspring. But he’d let you into court on a whim, really. If you weren't some kind of living toy--which is what he considered pets--then what was your purpose to him?
Everything in life had purpose, whether it was obvious to the eye or not. He’d lived and ruled long enough to understand the cycle of things. Something initially useless can become vital, and things once vital become useless.
And as he takes you on walks outside, watching your excitement as you flutter around and amuse him with your oddity, he ruminates on this odd stirring he feels within himself when you’re nearby. It’s a kind of suffering, he thinks, this crushing unseen pain in his chest which dominates his thoughts despite having no tangible presence. There is a desire brewing in him to see you everywhere. To watch your nose curl, to witness your smile, to observe how you study strange things you find, to laugh at your dislike of things. It’s…a pleasant distraction from the day-to-day mundanity.
Only when he comes to this conclusion does he come to peace with that word.
You’re just that. A pet. A pretty, amusing, little pet he’d drag some momentary amusement from and find a use or two for before discarding. When he explored fully and understood these feelings, he’d kill you or let you return to your family. Whichever he fancied. It wasn’t a cold outcome in his eyes, just the way of the world.
But in the meanwhile, while he figured things out, he could just enjoy you… right?
Enjoyed yourself? Consider leaving the mansion a tip!