𝖌𝖆𝖗𝖉𝖊𝖓 ﾐ 𝚛𝚢𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚞𝚔𝚊𝚗𝚊

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞

a/n: this is your stockholm syndrome era.

𝖄OU CANNOT RECALL HOW YOU ENDED UP IN THE KING'S COURT.

   There are several factors you can recall, however. When your mother became too poor, her back developing a hunch. Or, when your father sent you into the market to sell goods. (You never did because you had not understood.) The nail in the coffin was one of the village raids. That's right. It was in the village raid. The King of Curses has his reputation to loot and pillage, simply because he can. Some call him a demon. He is no king, nor demon in your opinion. He is simply a man drunk on power. How much of it truly belongs to him anyways? Most seems to stem from the tall tales that men weave of his prowess. I heard he ripped apart a man with his mind, a man told his comrade a while ago. Another time, you heard a mother snap at her child to stop crying or else he would come. Everyone had known who she'd meant.

   You stand in front of this man-killer now as he lounges across his throne with the self-assurance of a jungle cat. He scrutinizes the girl who stands in front of you, and you hope that he does not accept her.  It is better to be sent away or killed than to be the whore of Ryomen Sukuna. You have heard of the bouts of rage that plague him, the awful consequences of said rage.

  One time, he had turned a woman into ash because she had dared to make eye contact 'with a god', according to himself. Her story, along with many others, churn and bubble into a froth inside your mind as you observe him now. You do not dare look at his inhuman face, rather, you look at his muscled physique that is clear even through his loose kimono. At his inhuman four arms that rest on the throne arms, muscles coiled and ready like snakes to strike down anyone for anything. He laughs at the girl's misery, at her pleas to stay alive, and then tells the guards to escort her. With blubbers and sobs, the girl is led away.

   It is now your turn.

   As you hobble forward (the raid that you had been taken in had been particularly brutal, and not something you wish to recall), his full lips turn down ever-so-slightly. Good. You know how much he loathes the crippled and weak. Perhaps, you will make him care enough to anger him. That will not be good. You must make sure you do not stand out to him, but perhaps that sentiment is already dead and gone. He notices that your leg has not healed yet. He has made note of that in his mind, and so you already stand out to him. The other girls' has healed their injuries, but your injury is so recent (occurring mere hours ago) that you have not had time to heal it.

You do not see his eyes narrow, but you see the tightening in his jaw; the muscles flex as he looks down at you with the disdain of an aristocrat looking at a peasant. Actually, that comparison is too kind. It is more like a king looking down at a fly sitting in a pile of manure. Disgusting, but not a threat. You sit, making yourself as meek and as small as you can, and wait patiently for your death sentence. When he adjusts an arm, the clink of beads on his wrists creates a song that echos off marble tiles.

  They tell your damnation.

  "Maggot," his voice booms, low and smooth, similar to thunder. You do not meet his eye. "Tell me why I should let you live." Murmurs sweep across the court, confused whispers running amok. His lips spread into a smile. You are confused too. Why does he pretend as if you have a choice? Until one second ago, everyone had known how your fate would turn out. Now? It is murky. You hesitate, completely unsure of what to say. He will kill you either way. So, why not speak? "Woman!" You barely avoid flinching.

  "I can attend to you, my lord...?" Your voice dies out as he stands up, towering and imposing, and saunters towards your body. The court ceases their murmurings, somewhat disappointed. There could have been one girl he let survive, but alas. You are going to die now. He reaches you, and you do not look him in the eye. The girls behind you tremble. Few remain still, accepting death.

You wish you could be as stoic as them. You grab your own wrist, holding it still. However, the tremors move to your shoulders as he gets closer,
    
        closer,

             closer—
   
  He stops a mere inch away from you, and you can smell the sandalwood oils he has rubbed onto his skin. The jade beads around his next contrast sharply with his cream-colored kimono. His hand reaches up. You prepare yourself with shuddering breaths for something you do not wish for. A calloused hand grips your jaw and pointed nails dig into your cheeks, pushing your lips out into a pout. You keep your eyes on his throat. "Is that so? Attend to me," he sneers. The sadistic joy on his face makes your stomach churn. What type of bastard reveled in death?

Ryōmen Sukuna.

"Y-yes, m'lord." You cringe at your stuttering, at the nervousness and vulnerability he is drinking in and is amused at.

He leans in and you shudder at the way his body is humanly warm. "And just how would you do that?" A smile stretches across his face and you see the sharp fangs, his teeth bared. He snickers in your ear, savoring the pathetic way you tremble. (You cannot stop.) Everyone in the court knows how you shall attend to him. He knows it too. You are basically telling him: I shall stay as your whore. Please. His breath is hot as it curls against the crook of your neck. He hums into your ear, laughing silently. "I suppose you're pretty enough," he says, leaning away. You relax when his fingers are away from your face. "I'll keep you."

He walks back to his throne. "Send all the women away; I'm tired." Kill them, is what he truly means. And then, he walks to his throne and lounges back on it, head tilting back. "Oh, and bathe her in rose water and then bring her to my chambers."

   With that, your sentence is given.

   You are now a member of the King of Curses's court.