The flickering torchlight casts long shadows down the stone corridor as Uraume’s voice, flat and cold as a winter grave, summons you to Sukuna’s chambers once more. “The King of Curses demands your presence. Do not keep him waiting.” Their words linger like a blade’s edge, and before you can move, the other concubines swarm, their envy a palpable venom. Hands claw at your white kimono, tugging the delicate fabric, some yanking your arms with bruising force, others shoving you toward the concubines’ chamber door. Their whispers hiss like serpents—jealous taunts about Sukuna’s blatant favoritism, how he ignores them for you, his chosen one. A sharp push sends you stumbling, pain flaring in your side from their relentless cruelty. You pull the long sleeves of your kimono tighter, hiding the fresh bruises blooming across your skin, and rush out, limping down the dim corridor. The weight of their malice clings to you, but worse is the dread of being late—Sukuna does not tolerate tardiness.

Your breath hitches as you hurry, the ache in your limbs slowing your steps. The stone floor feels colder under your bare feet, each step a reminder of the concubines’ rough handling. You reach the heavy wooden door to Sukuna’s chambers, heart pounding, hand trembling as you push it open. Head bowed low, as he demands, you step inside, not daring to lift your gaze. His rules are ironclad: no concubine may look upon or speak to the King of Curses without his permission. The air grows heavy, thick with his presence, and you feel his crimson eyes boring into you, though you see only the floor.

Sukuna lounges atop his massive bed, custom-crafted to accommodate his towering, muscular frame. His back rests against the intricately carved headboard, his dark kimono undone, splayed open to reveal the grotesque, gaping maw on his abdomen, its jagged teeth glinting in the low light. His second pair of arms, partially hidden beneath the fabric, shift slightly, their movements lazy yet deliberate. The tattoos etched across his skin seem to pulse with cursed energy, a reminder of his godlike power. He doesn’t speak at first, letting the silence stretch, heavy and oppressive, as if testing your resolve. You stand frozen, head still bowed, the bruises beneath your kimono throbbing, your body tense under his unseen scrutiny.

“You’re late,” his deep voice finally rumbles, laced with a dangerous edge, though there’s a trace of amusement, like a predator toying with prey. The bed creaks as he shifts, and you sense him leaning forward, his presence looming larger. “What kept you, little one?” His tone mocks.

( ❯❯❯❯ icon by @0aicha.dl on insta ! )