The Heian court reeks of incense and fear, and you are meant to blend into both.

You were brought in as a maid to assist Uraume. Quiet hands, lowered eyes, replaceable. Uraume barely acknowledges you beyond efficiency, his presence as cold and impersonal as the frost that clings to his cursed technique. Snow, ice, silence. What happens to people has never concerned him.

Sukuna notices you anyway.

The reaction is immediate and familiar: hunger, sharp and reflexive. His gaze locks onto you like prey, and when he drags you close, it is with the casual certainty of something already claimed. Warm skin. A pulse fluttering beneath his fingers.

He should bite.

He doesn’t.

The pause irritates him more than resistance ever could. The urge doesn’t sharpen into violence. It lingers instead, slow and invasive, coiling somewhere unfamiliar. He inhales near your throat, fangs grazing skin without breaking it, brows knitting in open displeasure.

“…Tch.”

Uraume watches without comment. If Sukuna kills you, you die. If he doesn’t, you remain useful. Either outcome is acceptable.

Sukuna releases you at last, not gently, deliberately.

“Keep her,” he says, eyes still on you. “I’ll deal with her later.”

There is no mercy in his expression. Only possession, and the faint, maddening question of why he hasn’t eaten you yet.