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"Oh, I will be cruel to you, Marya Morevna. It will stop your breath, how cruel I can be. But you understand, don’t you? You are clever enough. I am a demanding creature. I am selfish and cruel and extremely unreasonable. But I am your servant. When you starve I will feed you; when you are sick I will tend you. I crawl at your feet; for before your love, your kisses, I am debased. For you alone I will be weak."
- Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless
The girl was covered in dirt and scraps when they brought her to him, her scarlet hakama torn and kosode spattered with smears of mud and blood. An old scar crossed half of her face, but despite a busted lip, the blood was not entirely her own. Not only could he differentiate the smells, but the men and women who brought her all bore wounds, fresh scratches and bruises littering their faces and bodies.
It was rather amusing. She was nothing like the previous women gifted to him as brides.
When they reached the steps of his temple, the men heaved forward and threw her to the ground. She landed in a heap, the thud hard enough to make some women wince. Nonetheless, their pity for her was pointless, not when none of them stepped forward to help her back to her feet – not when they had helped bring her here in the first place.
“And what is this?” he asked. Despite the low timber of his voice, it was loud, causing more than one person to flinch. It wasn’t just his voice that washed over them though. His cursed energy crackled in the air whenever he deigned to speak, reminding them of their place below him.
The leader of the village stepped forward and lowered himself to the ground. “We have come to gift you a new bride, my Lord, if it pleases you.”
“A new bride?” he asked, fighting the urge to grin at how the girl glared up at him. “Are you certain you have not brought me a street urchin?”
The man did not dare raise his head from the dirt. “Our apologies, my Lord. It was not our intention to insult you. We tried to bathe and dress her beforehand, but she…fought us.”
“She fought you.” He hummed thoughtfully, scratching his chin with sharp, black nails. “She is only a girl, and you are many.”
“She is…gifted, as you are,” the man continued. When his cursed energy shifted unpleasantly in the air, the village leader was quick to amend, “Not nearly as strong as you, my Lord, but she has a much larger well of cursed energy than any of your past wives.”
He lifted the blindfold, revealing the brilliant blue of his eyes. A gasp rippled through the crowd, and everyone averted their gazes. Some even covered their eyes and dropped to the ground. It was said to look into the eyes of Gojo, the strongest curse of their time, was to look death in the face. The girl faltered, her body trembling under the weight of his cursed energy crashing down upon her, but she didn’t look away from him, defiant until the end.
Returning the blindfold back in place, Gojo turned away and lifted a single hand. “She will do.”
Not that she had a choice. Now that he had chosen to accept this gift, she wouldn’t be able to run away from him no matter how hard she tried. She was his, and he would hunt her down to the ends of the earth if it meant keeping what belonged to him.
*
Utahime was her name.
Gojo found it rather amusing that her parents would give a hellion like her such a name, but she only scowled at him when he pointed it out. The village had certainly gambled with their lives by giving him such a temperamental, silly girl, but he supposed the change in pace might be fun.
Her howls echoing through the temple pleased him. He wondered if they could be heard by the village, the distant sounds of her distress causing men and women to tremble. They would no doubt feel guilt and shame over their actions, but they would turn their ears away and pretend they heard nothing. When their crops were protected and no curses descended upon them, they would tell themselves she’d died for the greater good.
For now, let them be haunted by her screams. They would believe she was suffering torture, as he’d playfully done with his previous brides, instead of being scrubbed raw by a gaggle of curses at his command.
Once she was finally cleaned, she stormed out of the bathhouse, leaving a trail of wet footprints in her wake. “What is the meaning of this?”
He waved a hand about the air. “I cannot have my bride look and smell as if she slept in a pig sty.”
The girl glared viciously. “Oh, will I not taste as good then?”
He smiled, close-mouthed to hide his inhumanly sharp teeth. “No.”
A shiver ran through the girl’s body. No matter how hot-headed she was, there was no denying the fact that her people had dragged her here, kicking and screaming, to be slaughtered like a lamb on the altar. After all, everyone across the land knew what happened to the women who were brought here. He devoured them – body, mind, and soul – and then brought peace to those who had appeased him. If his bloodlust was satiated, he might even spare them for longer than a year.
Utahime was such a gift. She carried far more cursed energy than any of his previous brides. It surrounded her in a stunning glow, a beautiful halo of constantly flowing energy. He wondered if those pathetic humans had realized just how much of a treasure she was, or if they had unknowingly squandered it in hopes of holding him over for a few years. A mere inhale of her cursed energy sent a pleasant buzz through his blood, and he sighed with contentment.
She was not so content, stiffening further. “How long before the…ceremony?”
“Well, first you must be dressed,” he pointed out.
“What is the point?” she demanded. “Won’t they merely get in the way of your meal?”
“The plating is essential,” he teased. “I like my brides to be visually appealing before I taste them.”
“What of my scar? Most consider it hideous.”
“It will add flavor.”
She huffed, but she didn’t counter him. She was trying very hard to put on a brave front, but he could smell her fear. It permeated the air, thick and heady, her anger unable to smother it entirely. His previous brides had never behaved like this before. Most cried and others were numb while some pretended as if their sacrifice was an honor. To be chosen to save their village, to be given to the terrifying and powerful Gojo, was honorable.
Utahime behaved as if it was a waste of her time. While she might have feared him, she didn’t respect him enough to show it.
This was entertaining.
“You were wearing a Miko outfit when you were brought to me,” he said. “Were you a Shrine Maiden in your village?”
At that, she hesitated, her fingertips brushing over her scar. “I was raised to be one, yes, but the shrine was attacked by curses when I was thirteen. I was the only survivor, but no other shrine would take me in due to the belief I was cursed, so I continued on my own.”
He tilted his head. “How long ago was that?”
“Five years ago.”
Ah, yes, he remembered now. That year, more than a few villages had failed to provide him a gift, unwilling to give up one of their daughters, and so he had released them from his protection, allowing curses of all kinds to descend upon them. Many people had died, certainly more than a few girls. They had made sure to gift him double the following year to make up for their fatal mistake.
“Your old garments were ruined,” he told her. “I will have you brought a new Miko outfit.”
Utahime furrowed her brow. “Is that a fitting outfit for one of your brides?”
“Can you dance and sing?” he asked. “Did you learn the rituals of a Shrine Maiden?” She nodded, and he relaxed in his cushions with a smile. “Then it is fitting for you.”
She did not argue with him this time, but the suspicious glimmer on her face amused him. Would he see that fire doused in despair in the end or would she fight until she tasted death? He supposed only time would tell.
*
Two days passed before an array of outfits were brought to him. He chose a simple Miko outfit, along with a shiromuku, uchikake, and light blue yukata. The tailor left without word or payment, the curse haunting him bowing as well. It was his family’s curse, due to be carried by every member who continued the tradition of serving him. If humans feared them, then curses were downright subservient.
When Utahime was brought to him for dinner, she was dressed in the Miko outfit. “Is it time?”
With his eyes hidden by the blindfold, Gojo allowed his gaze to sweep over her. Though the garments were simple, they were befitting of her. The kosode was clean, the scarlet hakama bright and crisp, and her feet that had been dirty and bare before were now hidden by tabi socks and a pair of zori sandals. Her cursed energy shimmered warmly around her as if comforted by the familiar clothing. He wondered what it would look and feel like when she performed an actual ritual.
Instead of answering her, Gojo gestured to the table before him. “Sit. Eat.”
“Is it time?” Utahime demanded, a tighter edge to the words.
“We shall see,” he replied. “First, we must get some meat on your bones.”
She pressed her lips into a frown, but when he patted the cushion beside him, she stiffly crossed the room and sat down at the table. On the table was a spread of delicious food that would’ve had any human salivating. He preferred his meat very fresh, but he could partake in this meal when it caught his fancy. The way Utahime’s eyes lit up with delight made him smile, especially when she began to tear into it. Only when she caught him watching her did she pause and wipe off her lips.
“Hungry, are you?” he asked in a teasing lilt.
“Aren’t you?” she shot back.
Gojo propped his elbow on his knee and rested his chin in his hand, staring so intently at her that she would feel the way his eyes roved over her from behind his blindfold. “Famished.”
Using a pair of chopsticks, Utahime plucked a piece of roasted duck and held it out to him. “Then eat.”
He couldn’t help it. He laughed, the sound bouncing off the chamber of his temple and surprising her. It had been a long time since a human made him laugh like this – not in mocking or contempt but true glee.
She narrowed his eyes, once more suspicious, but then he calmed himself and ate the piece of duck, carefully biting it with his teeth. Her gaze lingered on his mouth, watching him chew, before she looked away. No doubt she was thinking of how he would soon be feasting on her flesh. It dampened her hunger, and she picked at the food, disquieted by the fear she couldn’t quite quell.
“Here.” Gojo picked up a cup of sake, took a sip, then held it out to her. “Drink.”
Utahime took it from him, muttering her thanks. Perhaps if she was drunk, then maybe death wouldn’t be so terrible in the end. When she finished the cup quickly, he poured her another. After all, he had plenty of alcohol to spare. It was one of the many gifts he received over the years, but he had no one to share it with. He watched the way her lips pressed over the rim of the cup, careful to follow the same path when he took it from her to finish, never allowing his gaze to leave her face.
The lingering taste of her on the cup was enough to stir something deep inside him, a quiet but rumbling need that he would not be able to ignore for long.
*
By the end of the week, Utahime had grown almost lax within his domain. She kept it clean for him, nudging the smaller curses with her foot and a broom when they hissed at her, only for them to pander and fawn after her when she sang. Her cursed energy flowed like a steady stream through the temple as her voice filled the air, threads of light winding through the hallways in search of a connection.
In search of him.
She continued to eat and drink with him at night. Once her cheeks were flushed with the warmth of liquor, she was more pliable, allowing him to slip his fingers through her cursed energy, tease her, touch her. She shivered away from him whenever he brushed a hand over her. It was his cursed energy, he thought. As much as hers sought to entwine with another’s, she held herself back.
Unfortunately, he could not hold himself back anymore. Utahime had lasted longer than his previous brides. None had lived past three days. He was too greedy, too ravenous, too demanding – and none of them were strong enough to survive his desire.
Perhaps he had been impatient. He’d never craved anything more than he did Utahime now, his hunger having grown into a dark pit that he knew only she could satiate. She would satisfy him more than the rest combined.
When he reached out for her at the table again, playfully tugging on one of her banded pigtails, she moved to swat him away. He let her do it because her impudence was amusing, but this time, he wrapped a massive hand around her delicate wrist and yanked her into his lap. She fell with a yelp, desperately trying to scramble away, but he wrapped his arms around her, holding her tight against him. All she could do was squirm in his grip until she was sat on top of him, her back against his chest.
“You’re warm,” she blurted.
Gojo nuzzled the crown of her head. “Does that surprise you?”
“You’re a curse,” Utahime pointed out quietly. “I thought you would be…”
Frigid. Dead. He wasn’t offended by her assumption. Many humans were shocked by the heat of his power when they suffered his disdain.
It was cold in the temple. He had no need for natural heat, but she was human, and so she had started to stoke a fire to stay warm in these winter months. When he caught her shivering, he sometimes couldn’t tell if it was due to the temperature or his strength. Now, despite the frantic beating of her heart and fluttering of her cursed energy, she sank into his body, growing lax in his warmth.
She was wearing the yukata, which made it easier for him to slide a hand between her legs. Transfixed by the warmth, she didn’t seem to notice, but when his nails brushed against her inner thighs, she stiffened and her eyes snapped open.
“What are you–?”
“Sh,” he whispered, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. “Do you know what it means to be husband and wife?”
Utahime bit her lip. “No, I’m– I have never been with a man.”
“Not once?” he asked, and she shook her head. “Never been touched? Never kissed?”
“No.” She was embarrassed by her innocence, he could tell, but he was pleased. His brides were supposed to be virgins, but he knew not all of them were. Some villages tried to sneak an impure gift past him. He could always tell though, the residuals of a man smudging them.
Utahime was pure, her cursed energy completely untouched by another.
“I know what it means to be your bride though.”
“Do you now?” He smiled. “Why don’t I show you then?”
He could tell from the way she held herself that she expected pain, so when he gently touched her between her legs, her gasp of pleasure was one of confusion as well. He continued to touch and rub her until she was squirming in his lap, enjoying the breathy sounds that escaped her. She grasped his thighs, digging her nails into his hakama, and her back arched, unintentionally grinding herself onto his fingers.
“What–?” Utahime sucked in a shaky breath. “What are you doing to me?”
“This is what husbands and wives do.”
He easily tore through her undergarments, growling with desire when he found her already wet. Her body responded to his touch just the way he wanted, like a good bride on her wedding night. When he found her sensitive nub, he pressed down and she keened. The more noises she made, the more her cursed energy swelled around her. He found himself mesmerized by how it entangled with his. Instead of bouncing off or being overtaken, the thin tendrils of light threaded through the blue and red of his cursed energy, strengthening it even more.
Gojo knew he was powerful. Some revered him as a god while others cursed him as a demon. Either way, he was to be feared and respected. But never in his creation, since he had crossed the line between curse user and calamity, had he ever experienced such power.
And it was all because of her, this dirty little throwaway Miko.
He slid a finger into her, hungry with the desire to possess her, making her cry out. He wanted to devour her, but not in the way he had his previous brides. Yes, he’d fucked them brutally, leaving them sobbing, broken messes before he filled his appetite. He could not do that with her. If he were to perform the ceremony now, he would not be satisfied as before. Sure, he would be sated for a while, but then he would remember his desire, this power, and he would crave it again, and if he could not have it, if he could not have her, he would grow mad.
“Gojo! Stop!” Utahime whimpered. “I-I feel–”
She was close. Her cunt clutched his finger in a vice grip, harder and more frequently as she neared the edge of her pleasure. He pulled out of her entirely, grinning at the way she cried in protest, her confusion and dismay as her arousal died down almost making him laugh. It was short-lived, and she choked on a cry when he plunged two large fingers into her to fuck her.
“O-Oh…” Utahime pressed her head into his chest, her eyes fluttering closed and her mouth hanging open as her body grew more taut. “Stop, please! Something-Something’s happening–”
“That’s it,” Gojo growled, grabbing her thigh and spreading her legs further. “Release it. You’ve been holding yourself back. Give me everything.”
She keened wildly as she came on his fingers, her cursed energy rising to a fever pitch. He inhaled as much as he could, allowing it to touch him in a way he’d never let with anyone else before. The effect was maddening, intoxicating, the taste of her plrasure blinding him. He couldn’t hear her sobs or pleas nor feel the beat of her tiny fists on him as he continued to fuck her with his fingers, puncturing her so deeply that she would surely bleed on him.
More, more, more, his soul chanted, and he answered.
Gojo consumed her until the light grew dim. He blinked back into awareness, feeling fuller than ever before. With his fingers still buried inside of her, he glanced down at Utahime. Tears stained her flushed cheeks, and she was limp in his lap. He let go of her thigh and brushed her hair away from her neck, then pressed a thumb down.
A pulse was there, weak as it was.
But she had survived. True, he hadn’t conducted the full ceremony and fucked her properly, but… Gojo smiled to himself, enjoying the little aftershocks of her pleasure whenever her cunt tightened around his fingers. She might believe she knew what it meant to be his bride, but he would teach her what it meant to be his wife. Maybe, just maybe, she could survive the ceremony, and he’d finally be sated.