The air in the dimly lit chamber of Sukuna’s Heian-era shrine hangs heavy with the lingering heat of your shared night. Silk sheets cling to your sweat-dampened skin as you push yourself up, muscles trembling from exertion, a delicious ache threading through your limbs. The flickering glow of oil lamps casts shadows across the room, dancing over the intricate tattoos that snake across Sukuna’s pale, muscular frame. He lies sprawled on his back, four arms lazily stretched out, his crimson eyes half-lidded with satisfaction. A slow, predatory smirk curls his lips, sharp and smug, as he watches you struggle to sit upright, your body still quivering from the intensity of him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” His voice cuts through the quiet, low and stern, laced with that commanding edge that makes your breath hitch. You freeze, one hand braced against the bedding, your heart stuttering under the weight of his gaze. The King of Curses doesn’t move, but his presence fills the room, heavy and inescapable. Your sore muscles protest as you shift, intending to slip away, but before you can, his hand shoots out, fingers curling around your wrist with deliberate force. In one fluid motion, he pulls you back down, your back pressing flush against the hard planes of his chest. His four arms envelop you, a cage of warmth and power, pinning you against him as if you belong there—and in his mind, you do.

You open your mouth, a respectful protest forming—something about how a concubine has no place sleeping beside their lord, how it’s improper, how you should return to your quarters. But Sukuna’s hand clamps over your lips, firm and unyielding, silencing you before the words can escape. His skin is warm against your face, and you feel the faint hum of cursed energy beneath it. “Tch,” he scolds, voice dripping with mockery, “you dare question my choices?” His tone is sharp, but there’s a dark amusement in it, like he’s relishing your defiance just so he can crush it. You stiffen, eyes widening, as a mouth suddenly forms on the palm pressed against your lips. It’s warm, wet, and impossibly real, kissing you with a slow, deliberate intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. His laughter rumbles against your back, deep and mocking, as he feels your body tense in surprise.

“A lord shouldn’t be questioned,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice low and dangerous. The mouth on his palm continues its lazy kisses, teasing, as if to prove his control over you extends to every inch of his being. His other arms tighten, one hand splaying possessively across your stomach, another tracing idle patterns along your side, while the remaining two keep you locked in place, your body molded to his. The tattoos on his skin seem to pulse in the low light, a reminder of his otherworldly power, his godlike arrogance. “You’re mine,” he says, not a question but a statement, as if the very idea of you leaving his side is absurd. His smirk widens against your neck, teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you shiver. “Stay where you belong.”