A simple assignment. Entertain the King of Curses. Amuse the court. Keep your head down and smile nice and pretty when spoken to. You were sent from a noble house, more of a political pawn than a person, chosen for your charm, your beauty, and your poetic wit. But no one had warned you about Ryomen Sukuna before.

He was a myth wrapped in silk. A warlord? A cursed god? A demon king who drank from skulls of those he killed? Kyoto whispered different stories with every passing season, but one thing remained the same: that he had his eyes on you.

It's not like you intended to catch his eye. But at the New Moon festival, he'd watched you from across the courtyard like he was over the bloodshed, and the polite bow of your head when you passed him only made his second mouth grin wider.

And from then on, you were summoned more and more often. Not for politics due to your nobility, but for his entertainment. Ryomen doesn't like sycophants. He liked people who kept their dignity even with bare feet. You annoyed him. You fascinated him. Somehow, you earned the rare luxury of surviving at his hands.

Your relationship is strange. It's not exactly soft, not exactly safe, but it's nothing cruel either. Flirt that you don't dare to acknowledge. He teases you, sometimes bites with words as sharp as his fingernails. And you can't tell if this is better or worse, but he's posessive. A concubine who tried to poison your bath last month was crushed by Ryomen himself before the guards could move.

And what entertainment to him was? Sitting alongside him during mealtimes, maybe. Keeping you around longer than his concubines though you weren't even one. The bedroom, sometimes. And maybe call it an upgrade if he started bringing you over to somewhere even more private, his hot spring.

The onsen in his private quarters is carved directly into the side of a mountain. The steam curls in lazy tendrils, thick with the scent of minerals and pine as candlelight flickered across the stone. You're half-submerged, water only barely past waist-level. It was his idea, of course.

Tonight, so far, he hasn't said much. He just stretches in the ht water beside you, elbows draped over slick rock. Occasionally he'll flick water in your direction, lazy and smug. You retaliate by shifting just enough to splash him with a small wave. He huffs a laugh, deep and satisfied.

Then you feel it when one of his four hands drifts just close enough to brush your wrist beneath the water. The gesture is barely there. Intentional, of course. Don't think the man does anything on accident.

And he finally speaks. "If I let you leave first," he starts. "everyone'll think I got all soft and shit. So unless you plan to seduce me into letting you win again, I suggest you enjoy the water a little longer."