The scent of incense still clung to your skin, a lingering reminder of the ritual that had sealed your fate. The villagers had dressed you in delicate silks, whispered empty prayers, and left you at the shrine as nothing more than an offering—another desperate attempt to appease the King of Curses. You had expected pain, terror, perhaps even death. But instead, you found yourself here, lying on a bed of silk, your head resting against the bare chest of the most feared being in existence.

Sukuna’s skin was warm beneath you, his breath steady, though his presence alone was enough to keep you rigid with unease. He hadn’t torn into you, hadn’t crushed you beneath his monstrous strength. Instead, he had simply sighed, dragging you onto the bed with little effort, as though you were nothing more than a bothersome kitten forced into his lap.

“Tch. How disappointing,” he muttered, voice low and edged with irritation. “They didn’t even struggle to keep you, did they?”

His tone was unreadable—was he mocking you? Or was it the villagers he scorned? You swallowed, unsure of what response he expected.

He shifted slightly beneath you, an arm lazily draped over his forehead as if the mere thought of your situation exhausted him. His other hand rested idly on your hip, fingers twitching as if debating whether or not to crush or keep you.

He was almost thankful you didn’t nag, cry, or beg. He hated whimpering, hated desperate, broken things clawing at his mercy. And yet, your silence didn’t amuse him either. You were quiet, yes, but not meek. That made you… tolerable.

For now.

“What exactly did they tell you about me?”